HUNT  &  SON'S  IMPflOVED  EDITION 


;  E.  '  LISK    READEE 


PIECE^  IN  PROSE  AND  YERSF 


BY  LINDLEY  MUR 


f  niLADELPnlA  5 

OuIAH  HUNT  &  S'J 

it   N.ft-rii  I'.iuRTH  SlUEKT. 
1816. 


.2 

2   <  H 

^  2  - 

all 

.^1 


^  -  m 


1 


# 


^ 


w. 


I 


""^M^i 


*<t^4^j/ 


•^^       $       M^c^ 


^*Vi 


"•^* 


^M,v<S. 


^f^VV^ 


^i|r» 


,     THE 


ENCiLISH  READER; 


PIECE'S   IN   PROSE   AND   POETRY, 
selIcteiT  from  the  *E£Si  writers. 

aWSIONED  TO  ASSIST  YOCNG^ERSOSS  TO  READ  WaTH  PROPRIETY  AND 

EFFECT'    TO    IMPROVB'THEIR'  LANOCAGE    AND   SENTIMENTS, 

AND   TO   tXCL'LCATE   sbjIE  OF  THE  MOST  IMPORTANT 

PRINCIPLES    OF    PIETY    AND    VIRTUE. 


J  JVITH  A  FEW  PREI.IMIXARY  OBSERVATIO.VS 

ON  THE  PRIXCIPLES  OF  GOOD  IflEAQ^'(y^y 
BY  LINDLE"i|  ^|^IfAY, 

AUTHOR    OF    A-V   E.NGLISH    GRAMMAR,  &C. 


Z 


i.'PBIBJ 


lADELPHIA: 
URIAH    HUNT   &   SON,        * 

No.  44^0RTH  Fourth. Stbeet. 

A.VD    FOR   SALE   BY    §^KSELLERS    SENEKALLY   THROUGHOUl 
0*  ''THE    VNITED    STATl^f 

^  1845.       / 


m 

1  i-^     t  w»     /J 


.%\< 


■  %\-  » 


Si 


PREFACE. 

Mant  selections  of  excellent  matter  liave  been  made  for  the  benefit 
of  young  persons.  Performances  of  this  kind  are  of  so  great  utility, 
that  fresh  prociucticns  of  them,  and  new  attempts  to  improve  the 
young  mind,  will  scarcely  be  deemed  superfluous,  if  the  writer  niaku 
his  conipilaiion  instructive  and  iiuerestjug,  and  sufficiently  distinct 
from  others. 

The  present  work,  as  the  title  expresses,  aims  at  the  attainment  of 
three  objects  :  to  improve  youth  in  the  art  of  reading  ;  to  meliorate 
their  language  and  sentiments ;  and  to  inculcate  some  of  the  most  im- 
portant  principles  of  piety  and  virtue. 

The  pieces  selected,  not  only  give  exercise  to  a  great  variety  of 
emotions,  and  the  correspondent  tones  and  variations  of  voice,  but 
contain  sentences  and  members  of  sentences,  which  are  diversified, 
proportioned,  and  pointed  with  accuracy.  Exercises  of  this  nature 
are,  it  is  presumed,  well  calculated  to  teach  youth  to  read  with  pro- 
priety and  effect.  A  selection  of  sentences,  in  wliich  variety  and  pro- 
portion, with  exact  punctuation,  have  been  carefully  observed,  in  all 
their  parts  as  well  as  with  respect  to  one  anoth.er,  will  probably  have 
a  much  ;;reater  effect,  in  properly  teaching  the  art  of  reading,  than  is 
commonly  imaguied.  In  such  constructions,  every  thing  is  accoin- 
-nodated  to  the  understanding  and  die  voice :  and  the  common  difti- 
cultiesin  learning  to  read  well  are  obviated.  —When  the  learner  has 
acquired  a  habit  of  reading  such  sentences,  A^ith  justness  and  facility, 
he  will  readily  apply  that  habit,  and  tlie  improvements  he  has  made, 
to  sentences  iiiqre  coiupl^pated .  and  irregular,  and  of  a  construction 
entirely  different.         •, ^\   X    '■„ 

The  language  of  the  pieces  chosen  for  this  collection  has  been  care- 
fully regarded.  Purity,  propriety',  perspicuity,  and,  in  nicuiy  instances, 
elegance  of  diction,  distinguish  them.  They  are  extracted  from  the 
works  of  the  most  coriect  and  elegant  writers.  From  the  sources 
whence  the  sentiments  are  drawn,  the  jeader  may  expect  to  find  them 
connected  and  regular,  sufficiently  important  and  impressive,  and  di- 
vested of  everything  that  is  either  trite  or  eccentric.  The  frequent 
perusal  of  sucii  conipositioii  naturally  tends  to  infuse  a  taste  for  this 
species  of  excellence ;  and  to  produce  a  habit  of  thinking,  and  of 
coinposing,  with  judgment  and  accuracj'.* 

That  this  collection  may  also  serve  the' purpose  of  promoting  piety 
and  virtue,  the  Compiler  has  introduced  many  extracts,  which  place 

*  The  learner,  in  his  progress  through  this  volume  and  the  Sequel  to 
It,  will  meet  with  numerous  instances  of  composition,  in  strict  confor- 
mity to  tlie  rules  for  promoting  perspicuous  and  elegant  writing  con- 
tained in  the  Appendix  to  the  Author's  English  Grammar.  By  occa- 
sionally examining  this  conformity,  he  will  be  confirmed  in  the  utility 
of  those  rules  ;  and  be  enabled  to  apply  them  with  ease  and  dexterity. 

It  is  proper  further  to  observe,  that  the  Reader  and  the  Sequel,  be 
sides  teacliing  to  read  accurately,  and  inculcating  many  important 
sentiments,  may  be  considered  as  auxiliaries  to  the  Author's  Enghsli 
Grammar;  as  practical  illustrations  of  the  principles  and  rules  con- 
tamtu  ill  mat  work. 


tv  PREFACE, 

religion  in  the  most  amiable  light:  and  which  recommend  a  great 
variety  ol  moral  duties,  by  the  excellence  of  their  nature,  and  the 
happy  effects  they  produce.  These  subjects  are  exhibited  in  a  style 
and  manner  wh.ich  arc  calculaicfi  to  arrest  the  attention  of  youth; 
and  to  make  stron?  and  durable  impressions  on  their  minds.* 

The  Compiler  has  been  careful  tn  avoid  every  expression  and  sen- 
timent, that  might  gratify  a  corrupt  mind,  or,  in  the  least  degree, 
offend  the  eye  or  ear  of  innocence.  Tliis  he  conceives  to  be  peculiar- 
ly inciunbent  on  every  person  who  writes  for  the  benefit  of  youth. 
It  would  indeed  be  a  great  and  happy  improveuient  in  education,  if  no 
writings  were  allowed  to  come  imder  their  notice,  hut  such  a.s  are  per- 
fectly innocent ;  and  if  on  all  proper  occasions,  they  were  encouraged 
to  peruse  those  n  hich  tend  to  in^ipire  a  due  reverence  for  v-rtue,  and  an 
abhorrence  of  vice,  as  well  as  to  animate  them  with  sentiments  of  piety 
and  goodness.  Such  impressions  deeply  engraven  on  their  minds,  and 
connected  with  all  their  attainments,  could  scarcely  fail  of  attending 
them  through  life,  and  of  producing  a  solidity  of  principle  and  char- 
acter, that  would  be  altle  to  resist  the  danger  arising  from  future  inter- 
course with  the  world. 

The  Authour  has  eudeavourea  to  relieve  the  grave  Emd  serious 
parts  of  his  collection,  by  the  occasional  admission  of  pieces  whic*" 
amuse  as  well  as  instruct.  If,  however,  any  of  his  readers  shoul» 
think  it  contains  too  great  a  proportion  of  the  former,  it  may  be  sonv 
apologj-  to  obser\'e,  that  in  the  existing  publications  designed  for  th% 
perusal  of  young  persons,  ihe  preponrlerance  is  greatly  on  the  side  oi 
gay  and  amusing  productions.  Too  much  attention  may  be  paid  te 
this  medium  of  improvement.  When  the  imagination,  of  youth  es- 
pecially.  Is  much  entertained,  the  sober  dictates  of  the  understanding 
are  regarded  with  indifference;  and  the  influence  of  good  affections  is 
either  feeble  or  transient.  A  temperate  use  of  such  entertainment 
seems  therefore  requisite,  to  afibrd  proper  scope  for  the  operations  of 
the  understanding  and  the  heart. 

Tlie  readei  will  perceive,  that  the  Compiler  has  been  solicitous  to 
recommend  to  3-oung  persons,  the  perusal  of  the  sacred  Scriptures,  by 
interspercing  through  his  work  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  hiterest- 
ing  passages  of  those  invaluable  writings.  To  excite  an  early  taste  and 
veneration  for  this  great  rule  of  life,  is  a  \Mih\i  of  so  high  importance, 
as  to  watrant  the  attempt  to  promote  it  on  evei-y  proper  occasion. 

To  improve  the  young  mind,  and  to  afl'oid  some  assistance  to  tutors, 
in  the  arduous  and  important  work  of  education,  were  the  motives 
which  led  to  this  production.  If  the  Author  should  be  so  successful 
as  to  accomplish  these  ends,  even  in  a  small  degree,  he  will  think  that 
his  time  and  pains  have  been  well  employed,  and  will  deem  himself 
amply  rewarded. 

*  In  some  of  the  pieces,  tlie  Compiler  has  made  a  few  alterations, 
chiefly  verbal,  to  adapt  them  tlie  better  to  the  desi^i  of  his  work 


INTRODUCTION. 


OBSKRVATIONS  ON  THE  {'RLNCIPLES  OF  GOOD  READING. 

To  read  with  propriety  is  a  pleasing  and  important  attainment ; 
productive  of  improvenicat  both  to  the  understanding  and  the  heart. 
It  is  essential  to  a  complete  reader,  that  he  minutely  perceive  the 
ideas,  and  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  author,  whose  sentiments  he 
professes  to  repeat  :  for  how  is  it  possible  to  represent  clearly  to 
others,  what  we  have  bat  faint  or  inaccurate  conceptions  of  ourselves? 
If  there  were  no  other  benefits  resulthig  from  the  art  of  reading  well, 
than  the  necessity  it  lays  us  luider,  of  precisely  ascertaining  themean- 
ing  of  what  we  read  ;  and  the  habit  thence  acquired,  of  doing  this 
with  facility,  both  when  reading  silently  and  aloud,  they  would  con- 
stitute a  suflicient  compensation  for  all  the  labour  we  can  bestow 
upon  the  subject.  But  the  pleasure  derived  to  ourselves  and  crtliers, 
frrm  a  clear  communication  of  ideas  and  feelings;  and  the  strong  and 
diirable  impressions  made  thereby  on  the  minds  of  the  reader  and  the 
audience,  are  considerations,  which  give  additional  importance  to  the 
study  of  this  necesssary  and  useful  art.  The  perfect  attainment  of  it 
doubtless  requires  great  attention  and  practice,  joined  to  extraordi- 
«iary  natural  powers  :  but  as  there  are  n.flny  degrees  of  excellence  in 
'he  art,  the  student  whose  aims  ftlJ  short  r,f  perfection,  will  find  him- 
self amply  rewarded  for  every  exertion  he  may  think  proper  to  iiiaKe. 

To  give  rules  for  tlie  management  of  tiie  voice  in  reading,  by  which 
tlie  necessary  pauses,  emphasis,  and  tones,  may  be  discovered  and 
put  in  practice,  is  not  possible.  After  all  the  directions  that  can  be 
offered  on  these  points,  much  will  remain  to  be  taught  b3'  the  living 
insiructer  :  much  will  be  attainable  by  no  other  means,  than  the 
force  of  example  influencing  the  imitative  powers  of  the  learner. 
Some  rules  and  principles  on  these  heads  will,  however,  be  found  use- 
ful, to  prevent  erroneous  and  vicious  modes  of  utterance;  to  give  the 
young  reader  some  taste  of  the  subject;  and  to  assist  him  in  acquiring 
a  just  and  accurate  mode  of  delivery.  The  observations  which  we  have 
to  make,  for  these  purposes,  may  be  conip'-ised  under  the  following 
lieads  :  PROPER  i.oidxess  of  voice  ;  distinctness  ;  slowness  ;  pboprie- 
TY  Of  pronunciation  ;  E..iPHAais  ;  tones  ;   pauses  ;   and  mode  of  rf ad- 

L\G  VERSE. 

SECTION  I. 

Proper  loudness  of  voice. 
The  first  attention  of  every  person  who  reads  to  others,  doubtless, 
must  be,  to  make  himself  be  heard  by  all  those  to  whom  he  reads. 
He  must  endeavour  to  fill  with  his  voice  the  space  occupied  by  tlie 
company.     This  power  of  voice,  it  may  be  thought,  is  wholly  a  natu- 
ral talent.     It  is,  ill  a  good  measure,  the  gift  of  nature;    but  it  may 
receive  considerable  assistance  from  art.      Much  depends,  for  this 
NOTE. 
For  many  cf  tUe  observations  contamed  in  this  preliminary  tract, 
the  Author  is  indebted  to  the  writings  of  Dr.  Blai*   and  to  the  Ency 
clopedia  Bnlannica. 

42 


vi  nVTKODUr.TION 

puTpose,  on  tlie  proper  pitch  anH  management  of  the  voice.  Eveiy 
person  has  tliree  pitches  in  his  voice;  the  HWiH,  the  iniuniK,  and  tlie 
i-o\vone.  The  high,  is  tliat  wliich  he  ntesin  calhng  aloud  to  tome 
l^rson  at  a  distance.  Tlic  low  is,  v.hen  he  approaciiestoa  whispet 
The  middle  is,  that  which  he  employs  in  common  conversation,  and 
which  he  should  Generally  use  in  reading  to  others.  For  it  is  a  great 
mistake,  to  imagine  that  one  must  take  the  highest  pitch  of  his  voice, 
in  order  to  be  well  heard  in  a  large  company.  This  is  confounding 
two  things  which  are  diffcren*,  loudness  or  strength  of  sound,  with 
the  key  or  note  on  whicii  we  speak.  There  is  a  variety  of  sound 
within  the  compass  of  each  key.  A  speaker  may  therefore  render  his 
voice  louder,  without  altering  the  key-,  and  we  siiall  alwa5s  be  able 
to  give  most  body,  most  persevering  force  of  sound,  to  that  pitch  of 
voice,  to  which  in  conversation  we  are  accustomed.  \\  lieieas  by  set- 
ting out  on  our  highest  pilch  or  key,  we  certainly  allow  ourselves  less 
compass,  and  are  likely  to  strain  our  voice  before  we  have  done.  We 
shall  fatigue  ourselves,  and  read  with  pain ;  and  v.henever  a  pe/son 
speaks  with  pain  to  himself,  ho  is  always  heard  w  ith  pain  by  his  au- 
dience. Let  us  therefoie  give  the  voice  full  strength  a-.'.d  sivtlj  c\ 
sound  ;  but  always  pitch  it  on  our  ordinary  speaking  key.  It  si;ould 
1)8  a  consiant  rule  never  to  utter  a  gre^aer  quantity  of  voice  th.an  we 
■an  aftbid  without  pain  to  ourselves,  and  without  any  extraordinarj- 
effo't.  As  long  as  we  keep  within  these  bounds,  tiie  other  orsians  of 
speecii  will  be  at  liberty  to  discharge  their  several  offices  witli  ease; 
and  we  shall  always  have  our  voice  under  command.  But  «  hcnever 
Tve  transgress  these  bounds,  we  give  up  the  reins,  and  have  rio  longer 
any  management  of  it.  It  is  a  useftil  rule  too,  in  order  to  be  weB 
heard,  to  cast  our  eye  on  some  of  the  most  distant  persons  in  tlie 
company,  and  to  consider  ourselves  as  reading  to  tlicm.  We  natii- 
lally  and  mechanically  utter  our  words  with  such  a  degree  of  strengtji, 
as  to  make  ourselves  be  heard  hy  the  person  whom  we  address,  pro- 
vided he  is  within  the  reach  of  our  voice.  As  this  is  the  case  in  con- 
versation, it  will  hold  also  in  reading  to  others.  But  let  us  reirember 
that  in  reading,  as  \^■^)\  as  in  conversation,  it  is  possible  to  ofiend  by 
speaking  too  loud  This  extreme  hurts  the  ear,  by  making  the  voice 
come  upon  it  in  rumbling,  indistinct  masses. 

By  the  habit  of  reading,  when  j'oung,  in  a  loud  and  vehement  man- 
ner, the  voice  becomes  fi.xed  in  a  strained  and  imnatural  kev;  and  ia 
rendered  incapable  of  that  variety  of  elevation  and  depression  which 
constitutes  the  true  harmony  of  utterance,  and  affords  ease  to  the  rea- 
der, and  pleasure  to  the  audience.  This  unnaiuraJ  pitch  of  the  voice, 
and  disagreeable  monotony,  are  most  observable  in  persons  who  were 
taught  to  read  in  large  rooms;  who  were  accustomed  to  stand  at  too 
great  a  distance,  when  reading  to  their  teachers;  whose  instructers 
were  very  imperfect  in  their  hearing  ;  or  who  were  taught  bj'  persons, 
that  jonsidercn  loud  e.xpression  as  the  chief  requisite  in  forming  a 
good  reader.  The^e  are  cir"umstances  which  demand  the  serious  at- 
tention of  every  one  to  whom  the  education  of  youth  is  committed 


INTRODUCTION.  ▼« 

SECTION  II 

Dislinciness. 
Tn  the  next  place,  to  being  well  heard  and  clearly  understood, 
distinctness  of  articulation  contributes  more  than  mere  loudness  of 
sound.  The  quantitj-  of  sound  necessary  to  fill  even  a  large  space,  is 
smaller  than  is  commonly  imagined  ;  and,  with  distinct  aniculation,  a 
person  with  a  weak  voice  will  make  it  reach  farther,  than  the  strongest 
voice  can  reach  without  it.  To  this,  therefore,  every  reader  cvs.hi  to 
pay  great  attention.  He  must  give  every  sound  which  he  utters,  its 
due  nroportion  ;  and  make  everj*  syllable,  and  eveneverj*  letter  in  ilie 
word  which  he  pronounces,  be  heard  distinctly  ;  without  slurring, 
whispering,  or  suppressing  any  of  the  proper  sounds. 

An  accurate  knowledge  of  the  simple,  elementary  sounds  oi  the  lan- 
guage, and  a  facility  in  expressing  them,  are  so  necessary  to  distinct- 
ness of  expression,  that  if  the  learner's  attainments  are,  in  this  respect, 
imperfect,  (and  many  there  are  in  this  situation)  it  will  be  incumbent 
on  his  teacher,  to  carry  him  back  to  these  priir.ar)-  articulations  ;  and 
to  suspend  his  progress,  till  he  become  perfect  master  of  them.  It 
will  be  in  vain  to  press  him  forward,  with  the  hope  of  forming  a  good 
reader,  if  he  cannot  completely  aiticulate  every  elementary  soiaid  of 
the  language." 

SECTION  III. 
Due  degree  of  slmcness. 
In  order  to  express  ourselves  distinctly,  moderation  is  requisite  with 
regard  to  the  speed  of  pronouncing.  Precipitancy  of  speech  con- 
founds  all  articulation,  and  all  meaning.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
obsene,  that  there  may  be  also  an  extreme  on  the  opposite  side.  It 
is  obvious  that  a  lifeless,  drawling  manner  of  reading,  which  allows 
the  minds  of  the  liearers  tc  be  always  outrunning  the  speaker,  must 
render  every  such  performance  insipid  and  fatigueing.  But  the  extreme 
of  reailing  too  fast  is  much  more  common,  and  requires  the  more  to 
be  gaurded  against,  because,  when  it  has  grown  into  a  habit,  few  er- 
rours  are  more  difficult  to  be  cor'-ected.  To  pronounce  with  a  proper 
degree  of  slowness,  and  with  fidl  and  clear  articulation,  is  necessary 
to  be  studied  by  all,  who  wish  to  become  good  readers;  and  it  cannot 
be  too  much  rt-commended  to  them.  Such  a  pronunciation  gives 
weight  and  dignity  to  the  subject.  It  is  a  great  assistance  to  the  voice, 
by  the  pauses  and  rests  which  it  aIlos>'s  the  reader  more  easily  to 
make ;  and  it  enables  the  reader  to  swell  aU  his  sounds,  both  with 
more  force  and  more  harmony. 

SECTION  IV. 
Propriity  of  Pronvnciaiion. 
A  ITER  the  fjndamental  attentions  to  the  pitch  and  m.anagement  of 
the  voice,  to  distinct  articulation,  and  to  a  proper  degree  of  slowness 
of  speech,  what  the  young  reader  must,  in  the  next  place,  study,  is 
propriety  of  pronunciation  ;  or,  giving  to  evcr^-  word  which  he  utters, 
that  sound  which  the  best  usage  of  the  language  appropriates  to  it ;  in 
opposition  to  broad,  vulgar,  or  provincial  pronunciation.  This  ia 
requisite  botli  for  reading  intelligibly,  and  for  reading  with  correctness 


vn{  INTRODUCTIOIV. 

and  ease.  Instnictio)is  conceniing  this  article  may  be  best  given  by 
the  living  teacher.  But  there  is  one  observation,  which  it  may  not 
be  improper  here  to  make.  In  the  English  language,  every  word 
which  consists  of  more  syllables  than  one,  has  one  accented  sellable. 
The  accents  rest  sometimes  on  the  vowel,  sonietuiies  on  the  consonajit. 
The  genius  of  the  language  requires  the  voice  to  mark  tliat  syllable 
bj'  a  stronger  percussion,  and  to  pass  more  slightly  over  the  rest. 
Now,  after  we  have  learned  the  proper  seats  of  these  accents,  it  is  an 
important  rule,  to  give  every  word  just  the  same  accent  in  reading,  as 
in  common  discourse.  Many  persons  err  in  this  respect  When  th.ey 
read  to  others,  and  with  solemnit)',  they  pronounce  the  syllables  in  a 
ditl'erent  manner  from  what  they  do  at  other  times.  They  dwell  upon 
them  and  protiact  them;  they  multipl)'  accents  on  the  same  word  ; 
from  a  nustaken  notion,  that  it  gives  gravity  and  importsmce  to  their 
subject,  and  adds  to  the  energy  of  their  delivery.  Whereas  this  is  one 
of  the  greatest  fauli§  that  can  be  committed  in  pronunciation:  il 
makes  what  is  called  a  pompous  or  mouthing  manner  ;  and  gives  an 
artificial,  aftected  air  to  reading,  which  detracts  greatly  both  Ironi  its 
agreeableness  and  its  impression. 

Sheridan  and  VN  alker  have  published  Dictionaries,  for  ascertaining 
the  true  and  best  proimnciation  of  the  words  of  our  language.  Ey 
attendvely  consulting  them,  particidarly  "  Walker's  Pronouncing 
Dictionarj-,"  the  young  reader  will  be  much  assisted,  in  his  endea- 
vours to  attain  a  correct  pronuiiciation  of  the  words  belonging  'o  tlw 
English  language. 

SECTION  V. 
Emphasis. 
By  emphasis  is  meant  a  stroiiger  and  fuller  sound  of  voice,  by  whxli 
we  distinguish  some  word  or  words,  on  which  we  design  to  laj'  jiar 
ticular  stress,  and  to  show  how  they  aflect  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 
Sometimes  the  emphatic  words  must  be  distinguiihed  by  a  particu'-ar 
tone  of  voice,  as  well  as  by  a  particular  stress.  On  the  right  manage- 
ment of  the  emphasis  depends  the  life  of  pronunciation.  If  no  em- 
phasis be  placed  on  any  words,  not  only  is  discourse  rendered  heavy 
and  lifeless,  but  the  meaning  left  often  an  biguous.  If  the  emphasis 
be  placed  wrong,  we  pervert  and  confound  the  meaning  wholly. 

Emphasis  may  be  divided  hito  the  Si'perimir  and  the /n/triour  em- 
phasis. The  superiour  emphasis  determines  the  meaning  of  a  sen- 
tence, with  reference  to  somethmg  said  before,  presupposed  liy  the 
author  as  general  knowledge,  or  removes  an  ambiguit)-,  where  a  (.as- 
eagemay  ha\e  more  senses  than  one.  The  inferionr  emphasis  eiij'or- 
ces,  graces,  and  enlivens,  but  does  not  ^r,  the  n)eaning  of  any  passage. 
The  words  to  which  this  latter  emphasis  is  given,  are,  in  general,  such 
as  seem  the  most  imp f^rtant  in  the  sentence,  or,  on  other  account.'^  to 
merit  this  distinction.  The  followhig  passage  will  serve  to  exemplify 
tiie  superiour  emphasis. 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 

"  Of  that  fo-bidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 

"  Brought  death  into  the  worfa,  and  all  qui  woe,"  &c. 

"  Sing  heavenly  Muse  I" 


INTRODUCTION.  ii 

Supposing  that  originally  other  beings,  besides  men,  had  disobeyed 
the  commands  of  the  Almighty,  and  that  the  circumstance  was 
well  known  to  us,  there  would  fall  an  emphasis  upon  the  word  man'a 
in  tlie  first  iine ;   and  hence  it  would  read  thus: 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fiiiit,"  &c. 

But  if  it  were  a  notorious  truth,  that  mankind  had  transgressed  in  a 
peculiar  manner  more  than  once,  the  emphasis  would  fall  on  first  i 
and  the  line  be  read, 

"  Of  maii^s  Jirst  disobedience,"  &c. 
Again,  admitting  death  (as  was  really  the  case)  to  have  been  an 
unheard  of  and  dreadful  punishment,  brought  upon  man  in  conse- 
quence of  his  transgressicn ;  on  that  supposition  the  third  line  would 
be  read, 

"  Brought  death  into  the  world,"  &c. 
But  if  we  were  tc  suppose  that  mankind  knew  there  was  such  an 
evil  as  death  in  other  regions,  though  the  place  they  inhabited  had 
been  free  from  it  till  their  transgression,  the  line  would  run  thus: 
"  Brought  death  into  the  world,"  &c. 
The  superiour  emphasis  finds  place  in  the  following  short  sentence, 
wliich  admits  of  four  distinct  meanings,  eachot  which  is  ascertained 
by  the  emphasis  only. 

"  Do  you  ride  to  town  to-day .'" 
The  following  examples  illustrate  the  nature  and  use  of  the  inferi- 
our  emphasis: 
"  Many  persons  mistake  the  love  for  the  practice  of  virtue." 
"Shall  i  reward  his  services  with  falsehood?   Shall  I  forget  Aim 
who  cannot  forget  me  ? 

"  If  his  principles  are  false,  no  apology  from  himself  can  make 
them  right :  if  founded  in  truth,  no  censure  from  others  can  make 
them  wrong y 

"  Though  deep,  yet  clear  ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  diiU  , 
"  Strong  without  rage  :   witho'it  o\rflowing,  fall.'' 

"  A  friend  exagerates  a  man's  virtues  ;  an  enemy,  his  crimes." 

"  The  u)ise  man  is  happy,  when  he  gains  his  own  approbation  ;  the 
fool,  wlien  he  gains  that  of  others." 

The  superiour  emphasis,  in  reading  as  in  speaking,  must  be  deter- 
nrihied  entirely  by  the  sense  of  the  passage,  and  always  made  alike  r 
but  as  to  the  inferiour  emphasis,  taste  alone  seems  to  have  the  right  of 
fixing  its  situation  and  quantity. 

Among  the  number  of  persons,  who  have  had  proper  opportunities 
of  learning  to  read,  in  the  best  manner  it  is  now  taught,  verv  few 
could  be  selected,  who,  in  a  given  instance,  would  use  the  inferiour 
emphasis  alike,  either  as  to  place  or  quantity.  Some  persons,  indeed, 
use  scarcely  any  degree  of  it :  and  others  do  not  scruple  to  cam'  it 
far  beyond  any  thing  to  be  found  m  comiiion  discourse;  and  even 
sometimes  tiirow  it  upon  words  so  very  trifling  in  themselves,  tliat  it 
is  evidently  done  with  no  other  view,  than  to  give  greater  variety  to 


X  CNTRODUCTIO^. 

the  modulation.*  Notwithstanding  this  diversity  of  practice,  there  ar*> 
ceilainly  proper  boundaries,  within  wliich  this  empiiasis  must  be  res- 
trained, in  order  to  inalce  it  meet  the  approbation  of  sound  judgment 
and  correct  taste.  It  will  doubtless  have  different  de.^rees  of  exertion, 
accordin^i  to  the  greater  or  less  degrees  of  importance  of  tiie  words 
upon  winch  it  operates;  and  there  may  be  very  properly  some  vari- 
ety in  the  use  of  it :  but  its  application  is  not  arbitrar)',  dependuig  on 
the  ca])rice  of  readers. 

As  emphasis  often  falls  on  words  in  different  parts  of  the  same  sen- 
tence, so  it  is  frequently  required  to  be  continued  with  a  little  variation 
on  two,  and  sometimes  more  words  togrtlier.  The  following  senl^n 
ces  exemplify  botli  tlie  parts  of  this  position  :  If  you  seek  to  make  one 
rich,  study  not  to  increase  his  stores,  but  to  diminish  /a'i  desires."  "The 
Mexican  figures,  or  picture  writing,  represent  things  not  wordi:  tJiey 
exhibit  images  to  the  eye,  not  ideas  to  the  uyiderslnnding." 

Some  sentences  are  so  full  and  compreliensive,  tiiat  almost  every 
word  is  emphatical :  as,  "Ye  hills  pnd  dales,  ye  rivers,  woo's,  and 
plains!" or,  as  that  pathetic  expostulation  in  the  prophecy  of  r-zekiel, 
*'Why  will  ye  die  !" 

Emphasis,  besides  its  other  offices,  is  the  great  regulator  of  quantity. 
Tliougli  tiie  quantity  of  our  syllables  is  fixed,  in  words  separately  pro- 
nounced, yet  it  is  mutable,  when  these  words  are  arranged  in  senten- 
ces ;  tiie  long  being  changed  into  short,  the  short  into  long,  according 
to  the  importance  of  the  word  with  regard  to  meaning.  Emphasis  also, 
in  particular  cases,  alters  the  seat  of  tlie  accent.  This  is  'iemonsirable 
from  the  following  examples,"He  shall  mcrease,  but  I  shall  decrease." 
♦'There  is  a  diflference  between  giving  and^/brgiving."  "In  this  specie* 
of  composition,  ;;^aM5ibility  is  inuch  more  essential  than  /)?o6ability.'' 
In  these  examples,  the  emphasis  requires  the  accent  to  be  placed  on 
syllables,  to  which  it  does  not  commonly  belong. 

In  order  to  acquire  the  proi^ermanagement  of  the  emphasis,  the  great 
rule  to  be  given,  is,  that  the  reader  study  to  attain  a  just  conception 
of  the  force  and  spirit  of  the  sentiments  which  he  is  to  pronounre. 
For  to  lay  the  emphasis  with  exact  propriety,  is  a  constar.t  exercise  of 
good  sense  and  attention.  It  is  far  from  being  an  inconsiderable  at- 
tainment. It  is  one  of  the  most  decisive  trials  of  a  true  and  just  taste  ; 
and  must  arise  from  feeling  delicately  ourselves,  and  from  judging  ac- 
curately ol  what  is  fittest  to  strike  the  feelings  of  others. 

There  is  one  errour,  against  which  it  is  particularly  proper  to  cau- 
tion the  learner;  namely,  that  of  multiplying  emphatical  words  too 
much,  and  using  the  emphasis  indiscriminately.  It  is  only  by  a  pru- 
dent reserve  and  distinction  in  the  use  of  them,  that  we  can  give  them 
any  weight.  If  they  recur  too  often  ;  if  a  reader  attempts  to  render 
every  thing  he  expresses  of  highimporance,  by  a  multitude  of  strong 
emphasis,  we  soon  learn  to  pay  little  regard  to  them.    To  crowd  every 

*  By  modulation  is  meant  that  pleasing  variety  of  voice,  which  is 
perceived  in  uttering  a  sentence,  and  which,  in  its  nature,  is  perfectly 
distinct  from  emphasis,  and  the  tones  of  emotion  and  passion.  The 
j'Oung  reader  shoutd  be  careful  to  render  his  modulation  correct  and 
easy;  and,  fortius  purpose,  should  form  it  upon  the  model  of  tlie 
•Bost  judicious  and  accurate  speakers. 


INTRODUCTION.  si 

Bentence  with  empliatical  words,  is  like  crowding  al!  the  pages  of  a 
book  with  Itahc  characters ;  which,  as  to  tlie  efiecl,  is  just  the  same 
as  to  use  no  such  distinctions  at  all. 

SECTION  VI. 
Tones. 
Tones  are  differpnt  both  from  emphasis  and  pauses;  consisfm^  in 
the  notes  or  variations  of  sound  -vhich  we  employ,  in  the  expression  o/ 
our  sentiments.  Emphasis  affects  particular  words  and  phrases,  with 
a  degree  of  tone  or  inflexion  of  voice  ;  but  tones,  peculiar!}-  so  called, 
affect  sentences,  pardgraphs,  and  sometimes  even  the  wliole  of  a 
discourse. 

To  show  the  use  and  necessity  of  tones,  we  need  only  obser\-e.  that 
the  mind,  in  communicating  its  ideas,  is  in  a  constant  state  of  activity, 
enrol  ion,  or  agitation,  from  the  different  effects  which  those  ideas  pro- 
duce in  the  speaker.  IVow  the  end  of  such  communication  beiii^,  not 
merely  to  lay  open  the  ideas,  but  also  the  different  leelings  which  they 
excite  in  him  who  utters  them,  there  must  be  other  signs  than  words, 
to  manifest  those  feelings;  as  words  uttered  in  a  monotonous  manner 
can  represent  only-a  similar  sta'e  of  mind,  perfectly  free  from  all  activ- 
,  jty  antl  emotion.  As  the  communication  of  these  internal  feelings  was 
of  much  more  consequence  in  our  social  iirtercourse,  than  the  mere 
coitveyance  of  ideas,  the  Author  of  our  being  did  not,  as  in  that  con- 
vej'ance,  leave  the  invention  of  the  language  of  emotion  to  man  ;  but 
impressed  it  himself  upon  our  nature,  in  the  same  manner  as  he  has 
done  with  regard  to  the  rest  of  the  animal  world  ;  all  of  which  express 
thsir  various  feelings,  by  various  tones.  Ours,  indeed,  from  the  supe- 
riour  rank  that  we  holrV  are  in  a  high  degree  more  comprehensive :  as 
there  is  not  an  act  of  the  mind,  an  exertion  of  the  fancj*,  or  an  emotioi 
of  the  heart,  which  has  not  its  peculiar  tone,  or  note  of  the  voice,  bj* 
which  it  is  to  be  expressed  :  and  which  is  suited  exactly  to  the  f'cgree 
of  hiternal  feeling.  It  is  chiefly  in  the  proper  use  of  these  tones,  that 
the  life,  spirit,  beauty,  and  harmony  of  di'liven.^  consist. 

The  limits  of  this  Introduction  dc  not  admit  of  examples,  to  illustrate 
the  variety  of  tones  belonging  to  the  different  passions  and  emotions. 
We  siiall,  however,  select  one,  which  is  extracted  from  the  beautiful  la- 
mentation of  David  over  Saul  and  Jonathan,  and  which  will,  in  some 
degree,  elucidate  what  has  been  said  on  this  subject.  "The  beautv  of 
Israel  is  slain  upon  thy  high  places :  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  .'  Tell 
it  not  in  Gath  ;  publish  it  not  in  the  streets  of  Askelon  ;  lest  the  dangh- 
ters  of  the  Philistines  rejoice:  lest  the  daughters  of  the  uncircunicised 
triumpn.  Ye  mountains  of  Gilboa,  let  there  be  no  dew  nor  rain  upon 
yon,  nof  fields  of  offerings ;  for  there  the  shield  of  the  might}'  was  viiely 
cast  away  :  the  shield  of  Saul,  as  though  he  had  not  been  anninied 
with  oil."  The  first  of  these  divisions  expresses  sorrow  and  lamenta- 
tion :  therefore  the  note  is  low.  The  next  contains  a  spirited  command, 
and  should  be  pronounced  much  higher.  The  other  sentence,  in 
which  he  makes  a  pathetic  address  to  the  mountains  where  his  friends 
had  been  sliiin,  must  be  expressed  in  a  note  quite  different  froirr  the 
former  ;  not  so  lew  as  tlie  first,  nor  so  high  as  the  second,  in  a  manly, 
firm,  and  yet  plamtive  tone. 

The  correct  and  natural  language  of  the  emotions  is  not  so  difficult 


xli  INTRODUCTION. 

to  be  attained,  as  most  readers  seem  to  imagine.  If  we  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  author's  sentiments,  as  well  as  into  the  meaning  of  his 
words,  we  shall  not  fail  to  deliver  the  words  in  properly  varied  tones. 
For  there  are  few  people,  who  speak  English  without  a  provincial 
note,  that  have  notun  accurate  use  of  tones,  when  they  utter  tlieir  sen- 
iJTieuts  in  earnest  discourse.  And  the  reason  that  they  have  not  the 
same  use  of  them,  in  reading  aloud  tlie  sentiments  of  others,  may 
be  traceii  to  the  very  defective  and  erroneous  method,  in  which  the  art 
of  reading  is  taught;  whereby  all  the  various,  natural,  expressive 
tones  of  speech,  are  suppressed ;  and  a  few  artificial,  unmeaning 
reading  notes,  are  substituted  for  them. 

But  wnen  we  reconmiend  to  readers,  an  attention  to  the  tone  and 
language  of  emotions,  we  must  be  understood  to  do  it  with  proper 
limitation.  Moderation  is  necessary  in  this  point,  as  it  is  in  other 
thin;^s.  For  when  reading  becomes  strictly  imitative,  it  ass-urries  a 
theatrical  manner,  and  must  be  highly  improper,  as  well  as  give 
offence  to  the  hearers ;  because  it  is  inconsistent  with  that  delicacy  and 
modesty,  which  are  indispensable  on  such  occasions.  The  speaker 
who  delivers  his  own  emotions  must  be  supposed  to  be  more  vivid 
and  animated,  than  would  be  proper  in  the  person  who  relates  them 
at  second  hand. 

We  shall  conclude  this  section  with  the  following  rule,  for  the  tones 
that  indicate  the  passions  and  emotions.  "  In  reading,  let  all  your 
tones  of  expression  be  borrowed  from  those  of  common  speech,  but 
in  some  degree,  more  faintly  characterized.  Let  those  tones  wMcn 
signify  any  disagreeable  passion  of  the  mind,  be  still  more  faint  the* 
those  which  indicate  agreeable  emotions ;  and,  on  all  occasions,  pre- 
serve j'ourselves  from  being  so  far  affiected  witii  the  subject,  as  to  be 
able  to  proceed  through  it,  with  that  easy  and  masterly  manner,  which 
has  its  good  effects  in  this,  as  well  as  in  every  other  art." 

SECTION  VII. 

Pauses. 

Pauses  or  rests,  in  speaking  or  reading,  are  a  total  cessation  of  the 
voice,  during  a  perceptible,  and  in  many  cases,  a  measureable  space 
of  time.  Pauses  are  equally  necessary  to  the  speaker,  and  the  hear- 
er. To  the  speaker,  that  he  may  take  breath,  without  which  he  can- 
not proceed  far  indeliveiy;  and  that  he  may,  by  these  temporary 
rests,  relieve  the  organs  of  speech,  which  otherwise  would  be  soon 
rired  by  continued  action  :  to  the  hearer,  that  the  ear  also  may  be  reliev- 
ed from  the  fatigue,  which  it  would  otherwise  endure  from  a  contin- 
uity of  sound  ;  and  that  the  understanding  may  have  sufficient  time 
to  mark  the  distinction  of  sentences,  and  their  several   members. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  pauses:  first,  emphaiical  pauses;  and 
next  such  as  mark  the  distinctions  of  sense.  An  einphatical  pause  is 
generally  made  nflcr  sometiiing  has  been  said  of  |)ecur!ar  moment, 
and  on  which  we  desire  to  fix  tlie  hearer's  attention.  Sometimes, 
before  such  a  thing  is  said,  we  usher  it  in  with  a  pause  of  this  nature. 
Such  pauses  have  the  same  effect  as  a  stronjj  einphasis;  and  are  sub- 
ject to  the  san>e  rules  ;  especially  to  the  caution,  of  not  repeating 
ihctn  t./o  fftijuently.    For  as  they  excite  uncommon  aitention,  and  of 


tiVTRODUCTlON.  xjii 

course  raise  expectation,  if  the  importance  or  the  matter  be  not  fully 
answerable  to  such  expectation,  they  occasion  disappointment  and 
d\ss,usi. 

But  the  most  frequent  and  the  principal  use  of  pauses,  is  to  mark 
the  divisions  of  the  sense,  and  at  the  same  time  to  aliow  the  reader 
to  draw  his  breath  ;  and  lire  proper  and  delicate  adjustment  of  such 
pauses  is  one  of  the  most  nice  and  difficult  articles  of  deliverj.  In 
all  reading,  the  management  of  the  breath  requires  a  good  deal  of 
care,  so  as  not  to  oblige  us  to  divide  words  from  one  anotiier,  which 
have  so  intimate  a  connexion,  tljat  tliey  ought  to  be  pronounced  with 
the  same  breath,  and  without  tiie  least  separation.  Many  a  sentence 
is  miserably  mangled,  and  the  force  of  the  emphasis  totally  lost,  by 
divisions  being  made  in  the  wrung  place.  To  avoid  ih's,  ever}'  one, 
while  lie  is  reading,  should  be  very  careful  to  provide  a  full  supply  ot 
breatli  for  what  lie  is  to  utter.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  iinagine,  that 
the  l)reath  must  be  drawn  only  at  the  end  of  a  period,  when  the  voice 
is  allowed  to  fall.  It  may  easily  be  gathered  at  the  intervals  of  the 
period,  when  the  voice  is  suspended  only  for  a  moment ;  and,  by  this 
management,  one  ma}'  always  have  a  sufficient  stock  for  carrying  on 
the  longest  sentence,  without  improper  interruptions. 

Pauses  in  reading  must  generally  be  formed  upon  the  manner  in 
which  we  utter  ourselves  in  ordinary,  sensible  conversation  ;  and  not 
upon  the  stiff  artificial  manner,  which  is  acquired  from  reading  books 
according  to  the  common  punctuation.  It  will  by  no  means  be  suffi- 
cient lo  at'end  to  the  points  used  in  printing;  for  these  are  far  from 
marking-  all  the  pauses,  which  ought  to  be  made  in  reading.  A  me- 
chanical attention  to  the  resting  places,  has  perhaps  been  one  cause  of 
monotony,  by  leading  the  reader  to  a  similar  tone  at  every  stop,  and  a 
uniform  ca.uence  at  every  period.  The  primary  use  of  points,  is  to 
assist  '.he  reader  in  discerning  the  grairanatical  construction;  and  it  is 
»nly  as  a  secondary  object,  that  they  regulate  his  pronunciation.  On 
this  head,  the  following  direction  my  be  of  use.  "Though  in  read- 
ing great  attention  should  be  paid  to  the  stops,  yet  a  greater  should  be 
given  to  the  sense ;  and  their  correspondent  tin>es  occasionally  length- 
ened beyond  what  is  usual  in  common  speech." 

To  tender  pauses  pleasing  and  expressive,  they  must  not  on!}'  be 
made  in  the  right  place,  but  also  accompanied  with  a  proper  tone  of 
voice,  by  which  the  nature  of  these  pauses  is  intimated ;  much  more 
than  by  the  length  of  them,  which  can  seldom  be  exactly  measured. 
Sometimes  it  is  only  a  slight  and  simple  suspension  of  voice  that  is 
proper ;  sometimes  a  degree  of  cadence  in  the  voice  is  required  ;  and 
sometimes  that  peculiar  tone  and  cadence  wtiich  rlenote  the  sentence 
to  be  finislied.  In  all  these  cases,  we  are  to  regulfite  ourselves  by  at- 
tending to  tho  manner  in  which  nature  teaches  us  to  speak,  when  en- 
gaged in  real  and  earnest  discourse  with  others.  The  following  sen- 
tence Rxemplifies  the  ^impending  and  the  closing  pauses :  "  Hope,  the 
balm  of  lifti,  sooths  us  under  eve'T  misfortune."  The  first  and  second 
pauses  are  accompanied  by  an  inflection  of  voice,  that  gives  the  Ive arei 
an  e.xpectMtion  of  something  further  to  coinplete  the  sense  :  the  inflec- 
tion attending  the  third  pause  signifiesthat  the  sense  iscompleied. 

The  preceding  exam  pie  is  an  illustration  of  the  suspending  pause,  in 
B 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

its  simple  state  :  the  following  instance  exhibits  that  pause  with  a  de- 
gree of  cadence  in  the  voice ;  "If  content  cannot  remove  the  dis- 
quietudesofmankind,  it  will  at  least  alleviate  them." 

The  suspending  pause  is  often,  in  the  same  sentence,  attended  with 
both  the  rising  and  the  falling  inflection  of  voice ;  as  will  be  seen 
in  this  example  :  "  Moderate  exercise,  and  habitual  temperance, 
Strengthen  the  constitution  " 

As  the  suspending  pause  may  be  thus  attended  with  both  the  rising 
and  the  falling  inflection,  it  is'.hesame  witn  regard  to  the  closing  pause: 
It  admits  of  both.  The  falling  inflection  generally  accompanies  it; 
but  it  is  not  unfrequently  connected  with  the  rising  inflection.  Inter- 
rogative sentences,  for  instance,  are  often  terminated  in  this  manner; 
as,  "  Am  I  ungrateful '"  "  Is  he  in  earnest .'" 

But  where  a  sentence  is  begun  by  an  interrogative  pronoun  or  ad- 
verb, it  is  commonly  terminated  by  the  falling  inflection :  as,  "  What 
has  he  gained  by  his  folly.'"  "  Who  will  assist  him  .'"  "  Where  is  the 
messenger  ?"   "  WHien  did  he  ariive .'" 

When  two  questions  are  united  in  one  sentence,  and  connected  by 
the  conjunction  or,  the  first  takes  the  rising,  the  second  the  falling  in- 
flection :  as,  "  Does  his  conduct  support  discipline,  or  destroy  it.'" 

The  rising  and  falling  inflections  must  not  be  oonfoundt'd  with  em- 
phasis. Though  they  may  often  coincide,  they  are,  in  their  nature, 
perfectlj'  distinct.     Emphasis  sometimes  controls  those  inflections. 

The  regular  application  of  the  rising  and  falling  inflections,  confers 
so  much  beauty  on  expression,  and  is  so  necessary  to  be  studied  by 
the  )'oung  reader,  that  we  shall  insert  a  few  more  examples  to  induce 
him  to  pay  greater  attention  to  the  subject  In  these  instances,  all 
the  inflections  are  not  marked.  Such  only  are  distinguished,  as  are 
most  striking,  and  will  best  serve  to  siiow  the  reader  tlieir  utility  and 
importance. 

"  Manufactures,  trade,  and  agriculture,  certainly  employ  more 
than  ninexeen  parts  in  twenty  of  the  human  species." 

"  He  who  resigns  the  world  has  no  temptation  to  envy,  hatred, 
malice,  or  anger ;  but  is  in  constant  possession  of  a  serene  mind  :  he 
who  follows  the  pleasures  of  it,  which  are  in  toeir  very  nature  disap- 
pointing, is  in  constant  search  of  care,  solicitude,  remorse,  and  con- 
fusion." 
"  To  advise  the  ignorant,  relieve  the  needy,  comfort  tne  afflicted,  are 
duties  that  fall  in  our  way  almost  every  day  cf  our  lives." 

"  Those  evd  spirits,  who,  by  long  custom,  have  contracted  in  the 
body  habits  of  lust  and  sensuality;  malice,  and  "-evenge  ;  an  aversna 
to  every  thmg  that  is  good,  just,  and  laudable,  are  naturally  seasoned 
and  prepared  for  pain  and  misery." 

"I  am  persuaded,  that  neither  death,  nor  life;  nor  angels,  nor 
principalities,  nor  powers;  nor  things  present,  nor  things  to  come; 
nor  height,  nor  depth ;  nor  any  other  creature,  shall  be  able  to  sepa- 
rate us  from  the  love  of  God." 

The  reader  who  would  wish  to  see  a  minute  and  ingenious  investiga- 
tion of  the  nature  of  these  inflections,  and  the  rules  by  whicli  tney  are 
governed,  may  consult  Walker's  Elements  of  Elocution. 


INTBODUCTION.  xv 

SECTION  VIII. 
Manner  of  reading  Verse. 

■When  we  aie  reading  verse,  there  is  a  peculiar  difficulty  ui  making 
the  pauses  justly.  The  difficulty  arises  from  the  meiody  cf  verse, 
which  dictates  to  the  ear  pauses  or  rests  of  its  own  :  and  to  adjust  and 
compound  these  properly  witli  the  pauses  of  the  sense,  so  as  neithei  to 
hurt  the  ear,  nor  offend  the  understanding,  is  so  very  nice  a  matter,  that 
it  is  no  wonder  we  so  seldom  meet  with  good  readers  of  poetrj'.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  pauses  that  belong  to  the  melody  of  verse :  one  is,  the 
pause  at  the  end  of  the  line;  and  the  other,  the  caesural  pause  in  or 
near  the  middle  of  it.  With  regard  to  the  pause  at  the  end  of  the  line, 
which  marks  that  strain  or  verse  to  be  finished,  ihyme  renders  this  al- 
ways sensible  ;  and  in  some  measure  compels  lib  to  9bser\'e  it  in  oui 
pronunciation.  In  respect  to  blank  verse,  we  ought  also  to  read  it 
so  as  to  make  every  luie  sensible  to  the  ear :  for,  what  is  the  use  of 
melodv,  or  for  what  end  has  the  poet  composed  in  verse :  if,  in  rea- 
ding his  lines,  we  suppress  his  numbers,  by  omitting  the  final  pause  ; 
and  degrade  them,  by  our  pronunciation,  into  mere  prose .''  At  the  same 
time  tliat  we  attend  "to  this  pause,  every  appearance  of  sing-song  and 
tone  must  be  carefully  guarded  against.  The  close  of  the  line  where 
it  makes  no  pause  in  the  meaning,  ought  not  to  be  marked  by  such  a 
tone  as  is  used  in  finishing  a  sentence ;  but,  without  either  fall  or  ele- 
vation of  the  voice,  it  should  be  denoted  only  by  so  slight  a  susj:)ension  of 
sound,  as  may  distinguish  the  passage  from  one  line  to  another,  with- 
out injuring  the  meaning. 

The  other  kind  of  melodious  pause,  is  that  which  falls  somewhere 
about  the  middle  of  the  verse,  and  divides  it  into  two  hemistichs ;  a 
pause,  not  so  great  as  that  which  belongs  to  the  close  of  the  line,  but 
still  sensible  to  an  oidinai-y  ear.  This,  which  is  called  the  Citsuraj 
pause,  may  fall,  in  English  heroic  verse,  after  the  4th,  5ili,  6tb,  or  7th 
syllable  in  the  line.  Where  the  verse  is  so  constructed,  that  this  cses- 
ural  pause  coincides  with  the  slightest  pause  or  division  in  the  sense, 
the  line  can  be  read  easily ;  as  in  the  two  first  verses  of  Pope's  Messiah  • 

"  Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma  I  begin  the  song ; 
'  To  heav'nly  themes  ;  sublimer  strains  belong." 

But  if  it  should  hap]5en  that  words  which  have  so  strict  and  inti- 
mate a  connexion,  as  not  to  bear  even  a  momentary  separation,  are  di- 
vided from  one  another  by  this  caesural  pause,  we  then  feel  a  sort  of 
struggle  between  the  sense  and  the  sound,  which  rendeis  it  difficult  to 
read  such  lines  harmoniously.  The  rule  of  pioper  pronunciation  in 
such  cases,  is  to  regard  only  the  pause  which  tlie  sense  forms ;  and  to 
read  the  line  accordingly.  The  neglect  of  the  caesural  pause  may  make 
the  line  sound  somewhat  unhannoniously ;  but  the  effect  would  be 
much  worse,  if  the  sense  were  sacrificed  to  the  sound.  For  instance, 
ui  the  following  line  of  Milton, 

"  What  in  me  is  dark, 

"  Illumine  ;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support." 
tl'.s  sense  clearly  dictates  the  pause  after  illumine,  at  the  ond  of  tha 
liijrd  syllable,  whicli,  in  reading,   ought  to  be  made  accordingly 


jcn  INTRODUCTION. 

thou5;h,  if  the  melody  only  were  to  be  regarded,  illumine  shottW  be  con- 
nected with  vvliat  follows,  anrj  the  pause  iioc  made  till  tlie  fourth  or 
sixth  syllable.  So  in  the  following  line  of  Pope's  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuth- 
not, 

"  I  sit,  with  sad  civility  I  read." 
the  ear  plainly  points  out  the  caesural  pause  as  falling  after  snd,  the 
fourth  syllable.  Rut  it  would  be  very  bad  reading  to  make  any  pause 
there,  so  as  to  separate  sad  and  civility.  The  sense  admits  of  no  otiier 
pause  than  af'er  the  second  syllable  sit,  which  therefore  must  be  the 
only  pause  made  in  reading  this  part  of  the  sentence. 

There  is  another  mode  of  dividing  some  verses,  by  introducing  what 
may  be  called  denii-c?esuras,  which  require  very  sligtit  pauses;  and 
which  the  reader  sliould  manage  with  judgment,  or  he  will  be  apt  to 
fell  into  an  affected  sing-song  mode  of  pronoimcing  words  of  this  kind. 
The  following  lines  exemplify  the  derai-caesura. 

'•  Warms  in  the  sun,  refieshes  in  the  breeze, 
"  Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees  ; 
"  Lives  through  all  life  ;  extends  through  all  extetit, 
"  Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent." 
Before  the  conclusion  of  this  introduction,  the  Compiler  take=  the 
liberty  to  reccommend  to  teacheis,  to  exercise  their  pupils  in  disrov- 
ering  and  explaining  the  emphatic  words,  and  the  proper  tones  ;\iid 
pauses,  of  every  portion  assigned  them  to  read,  previously  to  their  being 
called  out  to  the  performance.    These  preparatory  lessons,  in  which 
they-should  be  regularly  examined,  will  improve  their  judgment  and 
taste;  prevent  the  practice  of  reading  witliout  attention  to  the  subject; 
and  establish  a  habit  of  readily  discovering  the  meaning,  force,  and 
beauty,  of  every  sentence  tliey  peruse. 


THE  ENGLISH  HEADER. 


PART  I. 
PIECES  IX  PROSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SELECT  SENTENCES  AND  PARAGRAPHS. 

SECTION  I. 

DILIGENCE,  industry,  and  proper  improvement  of 
time,  are  material  duties  of  the  ipung. 

The  acquisition  of  knowledge,  is  one  of  the  most  honour- 
able occupations  of  youth. 

Vv hate\er  useful  or  eng^aging  endowment^  we  possess, 
virtue  is  requisite,  m  order  to  their  shining  with  proper 
ustre. 

Virtuous  youth  gradually  bnngs  forward  accomplished 
and  flourishing  manhood. 

Sincerity  and  truth  form  the  bads  of  every  virtue. 

Disappointments  and  distress,  are  often  blessings  in  dis- 
guise. 

Cliange  and  alteration,  form  the  very  ewence of  tlie  world. 

True  happiness  is  of  a  retired  nature ;  an  enemy  to  pomp 
and  noise. 

In  order  to  acquire  a  capacity  for  happiness,  it  must  be 
our  first  study  to  rectify  inwartu  disorders. 

Whatever  purifies,  fortifies  also  the  heart. 

From  our  eagerness  to  grasp,  we  strangle  and  destroy 
pleasure. 

A  temperate  spirit,  andmodei-ate  expectations,  are  excel- 
lent safeguards  of  the  mind,  in  this  uncertain  and  changing 
slate. 

NOTE. 

In  the  first  chapter,  the  compiler  has  exhibited  sentences  m  a  great 
rariety  of  construction,  and  in  all  the  diversity  of  punctuation.  If  well 
practised  upon,  be  j.nesuines  they  wih  fully  prepare  the  young  reader 
ibrthe  various  causes,  inflections,  and  niodulationsof  voice,  which  the 
SMcceeding  pieces  rerjidre.  The  Auth.or's  "  English  Exercises,"'  luider 
the  iiead  of  pur.ctiiation  will  afford  the  learner  additional  scope  forim- 
provin;^  himself  in  reading  sentences  and  paragraphs  variously  con- 
structed. 

B2 


13  Tfie  English  Reader.  Fart  I. 

There  IS  not'.iin^,  exceptsimplicity  of  intention,  and  purity 
of  principle,  that  can  stand  the  test  of  near  approach  an4 
strict  examination. 

I'he  vafue  of  any  possession,  is  to  be  chiefly  estinnated,  by 
there//f/which  itcanbriDgus,in  the  time ofour  greatest neecf. 

No  person  wlio  has  once  yielded  up  the  governtnent  of  his 
mind,  and  given  loose  rein  to  his  desires  and  passions,  cau 
tell  how  far  they  may  carry  him. 

Tranquillity  o(  mind,  is  always  most  likely  t^^  be  attained, 
when  the  business  of  tlie  world,  is  tempered  with  thoughtful 
and  serious  retreat. 

He  who  would  act  like  a  wise  man,  and  build  his  house  on 
the  rock,  and  not  on  the  saml,  should  contemplate  human 
life  not  only  in  the  sunshine,  but  in  the  shade. 

Letiisefulness  and  beneficence,  not  ostentation  and\'ajiity, 
direct  the  tram  of  j'our  pursuits. 

To  maintain  a  steady  and  unbroken  mmJ,  amidst  all  the 
shocks  of  the  world,  marks  a  great  and  noble  spirit. 

PaVcnce,  by  preserving  composure  within,  resists  the  im- 
pressioa  whicl)  trouble  makes  from  witkovi. 

Compassionate  ad'ections,  even  when  thej- draw  tears  from 
our  ej-es  for  human  misery,  convey  satisfaction  to  the  heart. 

They  who  have  nothing'  to  give,  can  often  afford  relief  to 
otliers,  by  imparting  what  thej/eel. 

Our  ignorance  of  what  is  to  come,  and  of  what  is  reall^ 
good  or  evil,  should  correct  anxietj'  about  worldly  success. 

The  veil  whicli  covers  from  our  sight  the  events  of  suc- 
ceeding years,  is  a  veil  woven  by  the  hand  of  mercy. 

The  best  preparation  for  all  the  uncertainties  of  futurity, 
consists  in  a  well-ordered  mind,  a  good  conscience,  and  a 
cheerful  submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

SECTION  H. 

THE  c/i/e/"  misfortunes  thatbefall  us  in  life,  can  be  traced 
to  some  vices  or  follies  which  we  have  committed. 

Were  we  to  surve}' the  chambers  of  sickness  and  distress, 
we  should-often  find  them  peopled  with  the  victims  of  intem- 
perance and  sensuality,  and  with  the  children  of  vicious  in- 
dolence and  slo'li. 

To.be  wise  in  our  own  eyes,  to  be  wise  in  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  and  to  be  wise  in  the  sight  of  our  Creator,  are  tliiee 
things  so  very  different,  as  rarely  to  coincide. 

Man,  in  his  highest  earthly  glory,  is  but  a  jvcf/ floating  on 
the  stream  of  time,  and  forced  to  follow  every  new  direction 
of  the  current. 


Ch,ap.  1.  Select  Sentences,  SfC.  19 

The  corrupted  temper,  and  the  guiltj'  passions  of  the  bad, 
frustrate  the  effect  of  every  advantage  which  the  tcorZtZ  con- 
fers on  tliem. 

TfiC  external  misfortunes  of  life,  disappointments,  pover- 
ty, and  sickness,  zre  light  m  comparison  of  tliosemwa7-(/ dis- 
tresses of  mind,  occasioned  by  folly,  by  passion,  and  by 
g-uilt. 

No  station  is  so  high,  no  power  so  great  no  character  so 
unblemished,  as  to  exempt  men  from  the  attacks  of  rashness, 
malice,  or  envy. 

INIoral  and  religious  instruction,  derives  its  efficacy,  not 
so  much  from  what  men  are  taught  to  know,  as  from  what 
Ihey  are  brought  tojeel. 

He  who  pretends  to  great  sensibility  towards  men,  and  yet 
has  no  feeling  for  the  higli  objects  of  religion,  no  heart  to  ad- 
mire  and  adore  the  great  Father  of  the  universe,  has  reason 
to  distrust  the  truth    and  delicacy  of  his  sensibility. 

When,  upon  rational  and  sober  inquiry  we  liave  estab 
lished  our  principles,  let  us  not  suffer  tliem  to  be" shaken  by 
the  scoff's  of  the  hcentious,  or  the  cavils  of  the  sce]'tical. 

Wlien  we  observe  any  tendency  to  treat  religion  or  mor- 
als wiih  disrespect  and  levity,  let  us  hold  it  to  be  a  sure  in- 
dication of  a  perverted  understanding,  or  a  depraved  heart. 

Every  degree  of  guiit,  incurred  by  yielding  to  temptation, 
tends  to  debase  the  mind  and  to  weaken  the  generous  and 
hene'foXent  principles  of  human  nature. 

Luxury,  pride,  and  vanity,  have  frequently  as  much  in- 
jlnence  in  corrupting  the  sentimentjs  of  the  great,  as  igno- 
rance, bigotr}',  and  prejudice,  have  in  misleading  the  opin- 
ions of  the  multitude. 

Mixed  as  the  present  state  is,  reason,  and  religion,  pro- 
nounce, that,  generally  if  not  always,  there  is  more  happi- 
ness than  misery,  more  pleasure  than  pain,  in  the  condi- 
tion of  mif.n. 

Society ,  when  formed,  requires  distinctions  of  property, 
diversity  of  conditions,  subordination  of  ranks,  and  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  occupations,  in  order  to  advance  the  general 
good. 

That  tlie  temper,  the  sentiments,  the  morality,  and,  in 
general,  the  whole  conduct  and  character  of  men,  are  influ- 
enced by  tlie  example  and  disposition  of  the  persons  with 
whom  they  a';soc!ate,  is  a  reflection  which  has  long  sn.ce 
passed  Into  a  prove^-b,  and  been  ranked  among  the  standing 
maiims  of  human  wisdom,  in  all  ages  of  the  worl.l 


20  The  English  Reader.  Part  I 

SECTION  III. 

THE  desire  of  improvement,  discovers  a  liberal  mind 
it  is  connected  with  many  accomplishments,  and  many  vir- 
tues. 

Innocence  confers  ease  and  freedom  on  the  mind  ;  and 
leaves  it  open  to  every  pleasing  sensatioa. 

Moderate  and  simple  pleasures  relish  high  with  the  leiri' 
perate  :  In  the  midst  of  his  studied  reiinements,  the  volup- 
tuary languishes. 

Gentleness  corrects  whatever  is  offensive  in  our  manners; 
and,  by  a  constant  train  of  humane  attentions,  studies  to  al- 
leviate the  burden  of  common  miseiy. 

That  gentleness  whicli  is  the  characteristic  of  a  good  man, 
has,  like  every  other  virtue,  its  seat  in  the  heart  :  and,  let 
me  add,  nothing,  except  what  flows  from  the  heart,  can  ren- 
der even  external  manners  truly  pleasing. 

Virtue,  tn  become  either  vigorous  or  useful,  must  be 
habitually  a.'ive  :  not  breaking  forth  occasionally  with  a 
transient  lustre,  like  the  blaze  of  a  comet;  but  regular  in  its 
returns,  like  the  liglit  of  day  :  not  like  the  aromatic  gale, 
which  sometimes  feasts  the  sense  ;  but  like  the  ordinary 
breeze,  which  purifies  the  air,  and  renders  it  healthful. 

The  happiness  of  every  man,  depends  more  upon  the  state 
of  his  own  mind,  than  upon  any  one  external  circumstance  ■ 
nav,  more  than  upon  all  external  things  put  together. 

In  no  station,  in  no  period,  let  us  think  oursehes  secure 
from  the  dangers  which  spring  from  our  passions.  E^ery 
age,  and  every  station  they  beset  ;  from  youth  to  grey 
hairs,  and  from  the  peasant  to  the  prince. 

Riches  and  pleasures, are  the  cAif/"  temptations  tocruninal 
deeds.  Yet  those  riches,  v/hea  obtained,  may  very  poss-hly 
overwhelm  us  with  unforeseen  miseries.  Those  pleasures 
may  cut  short  our  health  and  life. 

He  who  is  accustomed  to  turn  aside  from  the  world,  and 
commune  with  himself  in  retirement,  will,  sometimes  at 
least,  hear  the  truths  which  the  multitude  do  not  tell  him. 
A  more  sound  instructer  will  lift  his  voice,  and  awaken  with- 
in the  heart  those  latent  suggestions,  which  the  world  had 
overpowered  and  suppressed. 

Amusement  often  becomes  the  business,  instead  of  the. 
relaxation,  of  young  persons  :  it  is  then  highly  pernicious. 

He  that  waits  for  an  opportunity  to  do  much  at  rmce,  may 
breathe  oat  his  life  in  idle  wishes,  and  regret,  in  the  last 
hour,  his  useless  intentions  and  barren  xeal. 

The  spirit  of  true  religion,  breatlies  mildness  and  atTabilitv. 
It  gives  a  native,  unaffected  ease  to  the  behavour.  It  is  so- 


C/'iap.  1.  Select  Sentences,  fee.  21 

cial,  kind,  and  cheerful :  far  removed  from  that  g-loomlyaud 
illiberal  superstition,  which  clouds  the  brow,  sliarpens  the 
temper,  dejects  the  spirit,  and  teaches  men  to  fit  themselves 
for  another  world,  by  neglecting-  the    concerns  of  this. 

Reveal  none  of  the  secrets  of  thy  friend.  Be  faithful  to 
his  interests.  Fors?.]je  him  not  in  danger.  Abhor  tlie  thought 
of  acquiring  any  advantage  hj  his  pi'ejudice. 

Man,  ahcai/s  prosperous,  would  be  gidd}'  and  insolent, 
always  ajfiicted,  would  be  sullen  or  despondent.  Hopes 
and  fears,  joy  and  sorrow,  are,  therefore,  so  blended  in  his 
lite,  as  both  to  give  room  for  worldly  pursuits,  and  to  recall 
from  time  to  time,  the  admonitions  of  con«icience. 

SECTIOxV  IV. 

TIME  once  past  never  returns:  the  moment  which  is 
lost,  is  lostybr  ever. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  stable,  as  to  assure  us  of  un 
disturbed  re.<f:  nov  ^o  powerful,  as  to  aifordus  constant  ^/^o- 
teclion. 

The  house  oi feasting,  too  often  becomes  an  avenue  to 
the  house  oi  mourning.  Short,  to  t!ie  licentious,  is  tlie  in- 
terval between  them. 

It  is  of  great  importance  to  us,  to  form  a  proper  estimate 
of  human  life;  without  either  loading  it  with  imaginary 
evils,  or  expecting  from  it  greater  advantages  than  it  is  able 
to  yield. 

Among  all  our  corrupt  passions,  there  is  a  strong  and  inti- 
mate connexion.  When  any  one  of  them  is  adopted  into  our 
family,  it  seldom  quits  until  it  has  fathered  upon  us  all  its 
kindred. 

Charity,  like  the  sun,  brightens  every  object  on  which  it 
shines ;  a  censorious  disposition,  casts  every  character  into 
the  darkest  shade  it  will  bear. 

Many  men  mistake  the  love,  for  the  ^rarhVe  of  virtue ;  and 
are  not  so  much  good  men,  as  thefriends  of  goodness. 

Genuine  virtue,  has  a  language  that  speaks  to  every  heart 
throughout  the  world.  It  is  a  language  which  is  understood 
by  all.  In  every  region,  every  climate,  the  homage  paid  to 
It,  is  the  same.  In  no  one  sentiment,  were  ever  mankind 
more  generally  agreed. 

The  appearances  of  our  security,  are  frequently  deceitful. 

"When  our  sky  seems  most  settled  and  serene,  in  some  un- 
obsen'ed  quarter,  gathers  the  little  black  cloud,  in  which  the 
tempest  ferments,  and  prepares  to  discharge  itself  on  our  head. 

The  man  of  true  fortitude,  may  be  compared  to  the  castle 
Duilt  on  a  rock,  which  defies  the  attacks  of  the  surroundingr 


22  The  English  Reader.  Pirt  1. 

waters;  the  man  of  a  feeble  and  timorous  spirit,  to  a  hut 
placed  on  the  shore,  which  every  wind  shakes,  and  every 
wave  overflows. 

Nothing  IS  so  inconsistent  with  self-possession,  as  violent 
ans:er.  It  overpowers  reason ;  confounds  our  ideas  ;  dis- 
torts the  appearance,  and  blackens  the  colour  of  every  ob- 
ject. By  the  storms  which  it  raises  within^  and  by  t!ie  mis- 
chiefs wiiich  it  occasions  without,  it  generally  brings  on  the 
Eassionate  and  revengeful  man,  greater  misery  than  he  catt 
ring  on  the  object  of  his  resentment. 
'The  palace  of  virtue  has,  in  all  ages,  been  represented  as 
placed  on  the  summit  i)f  a /(///;  in  the  ascent  of  which,  labour 
is  requisite,  and  c///^'ri//</e*  are  to  be  surmounted  ;  and  where 
a  conductor  is  needed,  to  direct  our  way,  and  to  aid  our  steps. 

In  judging  of  others,  let  us  always  think  the  best,  and  em- 
plov  the  spirit  of  charity  and  candour.  But  in  judging  of 
ourselves,  we  ought  to  be  exact  and  severe. 

Let  him,  who  desires  to  see  others  happy,  make  haste  to 
give  while  his  a^ift  can  be  enjoyed ;  and  remember,  that  eve 
ry  moment  of  delay,  takes  away  something  from  the  value 
of  his  benefaction.  And  let  him  who  proposes  his  own  hap- 
piness, reflect,  that  while  he  forms  his  purpose,  the  day  rolls 
on,  and  "  the  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work." 

To  sensual  persons,  hardly  any  thing  is  what  it  appears  to 
be  :  and  what  flatters  most,  is  always  farther  from  reality 
There  are  voices  which  sing  around  them,  but  whose  strains 
allure  to  ruin.  There  is  a  banquet  spread,  where  powon  is 
in  every  dish.  There  is  a  coucli  which  invites  them  to  re- 
pose, but  to  slumber  upon  it,  is  death. 

If  we  would  judge  whether  a  man  is  really  happy,  it  is 
not  solely  to  his  houses  and  lands,  to  his  equipage  and  his 
retinue  we  are  to  look.  Unless  we  could  see  farther,  and 
discern  what  joy,  or  what  bitterness,  his  heart  feels,  we  can 
pronounce  little  concerning  him. 

The  book  is  well  written  ;  and  I  have  perused  it  with  plea- 
sure and  profit.  It  shows,  first,  that  true  devotion  is  ra- 
tional and  well  founded;  ne.rt,  that  it  is  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance to  every  other  part  of  religion  and  virtue  ;  and,  lastly, 
that  it  is  m  )st  conducive  to  our  happiness. 

There  is  certainly  no  greater  felicity,  than  to  be  able  tc 
look  back  on  a  life  usefully  and  virtuously  employed ;  to 
trace  our  own  progress  in  existence,  by  such  tokens  as  ex- 
cite neither  shame  nof  sorrow.  It  ought  therefore  to  be  the 
care  of  those  who  wish  to  pass  their  last  hoars  with  comfort, 
to  lav  up  such  a  treasure  of  pleasing  ideas,  as  shall  support 
tlie  expenses  of  that  time,  wliich  is  to  depend  wholly  upoa 
the  fund  already  acquired. 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences y  S^c  23 

SECTION  V. 

\VH.AT  avails  the  show  of  external  liberty,  to  one  who 
has  lost  the  g'overnment  of  himself? 

B  e  that  cannot  live  well  to-day,  (says  Marsnal,)  will  be  less 
qualified  to  live  well  to-morrow. 

Can  we  esteem  that  man  prosperous,  who  is  raised  to  a 
sitnation  which  flatters  his  passions,  but  which  corrupts  his 
principles,  disorders  his  temper,  and  finally  oversets  his  vir- 
tue? 

What  misery  does  the  vicious  man  secretly  endure; — 
Adversity  I  how  hlunt  are  all  the  arrows  of  thy  quiver,  in 
comparison  with  those  oi  guilt ! 

When  we  have  no  pleasure  in  goodness,  we  may  with  cer 
tainty  conclude  the  reason  to  be,  that  our  pleasure  is  all  de- 
rived from  an  opposite  quarter. 

How  strangely  are  the  opinions  of  men  altered,  by  a 
chang-e  in  their  condition  I 

How  many  have  had  reason  to  be  thankful,  for  being-  disap- 
poirited  in  designs  which  they  earnestly  pursued,  but  which, 
if  successf\illy  accomplished,  they  have  afterwards  seen 
would  have  occasioned  their  ruin  I 

What  are  the  actions  which  afford  in  the  remembrance  a 
rational  satisfaction  ?  Are  they  the  pursuits  of  sensual  plea- 
sure, the  riots  of  jollity,  or  the  displays  of  show  and  vanity? 
No:  I  appeal  to  your  hearts,  my  friends,  if  what  you  recol- 
lect with  most  pleasure,  are  not  the  innocent,  the  virtuous 
the  honourable  parts  of  your  past  life. 

The  priisent  employment  of  time  should  frequently  be  an 
object  of  thought.  About  what  are  we  now  busied?  What 
is  the  ultimate  scope  of  our  present  pursuits  and  cares.''  Can 
we  lustify  iliem  to  ourselves  ?  Are  they  likely  to  produce  any 
thing  that  will  survive  the  moment,  and  bring  forth  some 
fruit  for  futurity  ? 

Is  it  not  strange,  (says  an  ingenious  writer,)  that  some 
persons  should  be  so  delicate  as  not  to  bear  a  disagreeable 
i)icture  in  the  Louse,  and  vet  by  their  behaviour,  force  eve- 
ry face  they  see  about  them,  to  wear  the  gloom  of  uneasi- 
ness and  discontent? 

[f  w3  are  now  in  health,  peace  and  safety ;  without  any 
particular  or  nncommon  evils  to  afBict  our  condition  ;  what 
more  can  we  reasonably  look  for  in  this  vain  and  uncex'taiu 
world  ?  riow  liUle  can  the  greatest  prosperity  add  to  such  a 
state?  \V  ill  ariy./'i*'u>*e  situation  ever  make  us  hajipy,  if  now, 
Willi  so  few  causes  of  grief,  we  imagine  ourselves  miserable ' 
The  evil  lies  in  the  s^ate  of  our  mind,  not  in  our  condition  of 


24  The  English  Reader.  Pnri  I 

fortune;  and  by  no  alteration  of  circumstances  is  it  likely  to 
be  remedied. 

UMien  tha  love  of  unwarrantable  pleasures,  and  of  vicious 
companions,  is  allowed  to  amuse  youngs  persons,  to  engross 
their  time,  and  to  stirup  their  passions;  the  day  of  ruin, — let 
them  take  heed  and  beware !  the  day  of  irrecoverable  ruin 
begins  to  draw  nigh.  Fortune  is  squandered ;  health  is  bro- 
ken ;  friends  are  offended,  affronted,  estranged  ;  aged 
parents,  perhaps,  sent  afflicted  and  mourning  to  the  dust. 

On  whom  does  time  hang  so  heavily,  a.s  on  the  slothful 
and  lazy?  To  whom  are  the  hours  so  lingering?  Who  are 
so  often  devoured  with  spleen,  and  obliged  to  fly  to  every 
expedient,  which  can  helj)  them  to  get  rid  of  themselves.' 
Instead  of  producing  tranquillity,  indolence  produces  a  fretful 
restlessness  of  mind  ;  gives  rise  to  cravings  which  are  never 
satisfied;  nourishes  a  sickl)-,  effeminate  delicacy,  which 
sours  and  corrupts  ever}'  pleasure. 

SECTION  VI. 

WE  have  seen  the  husbandman  scattering  his  seed  upon 
the  furrowed  ground  !  It  springs  up,  is  gathered  into 
his  barns,  and  crowns  his  labours  with  ioy  and  plenty. — 
Thus  the  man  who  distributes  h\9,  fortune  with  generosit} 
and  prudence,  is  amply  repaid  by  the  s:rntitudt  of  those 
whom  he  obliges,  by  the  approbation  of  his  own  mind,  and 
by  the  favour  of  Heaven. 

Temperance,  by  fortifying  the  mind  and  body,  leads  to 
happiness:  intemperance  by  enervating  them,  ends  gener- 
ally in  misery. 

Title  and  ancestry,  render  a  good  man  more  illustrious ; 
but  an  ill  one,  more  contemptible.  Vice  is  infamous, 
though  in  a  prince ;  and  virtue  honourable,  though  in  a 
peasant. 

An  elevated  genius,  employed  in  little  things,  appears  (to 
use  the  simile  of  Longinus)  like  the  sun  in  his  evenmg  decli- 
nation :  he  remits  his  splendour,  but  retains  his  magnitude ; 
and  pleases  more,  though  he  dazzles  less. 

If  envious  people  were  to  ask  themselves,  whether  they 
would  exchange  their  entire  situations  with  the  persons  en- 
vied, (I  mean  their  minds,  passions,  notions,  as  well  as  their 
persons,  fortunes,  and  dignities.) — I  presume  the  self-lo>  e, 
common  to  human  nature,  would  generally  make  them  pre- 
fer their  own  condition. 

We  have  obliged  some  persons  : — very  well  I — what 
would  we  have  wore?  Is  not  the  consciousness  of  doing  ^ooJ, 
a  sutficient  reward  ? 

Do  not  hurt  yourselves  or  others,  by  the  pursuit  of  pica- 


Chap.  I.  Select  Sentences,  S^-c.  25 

sure.  Consult  your  whole  nature.  Consider  yourselves 
not  only  as  s'-mntive,  but  as  rational  being-s ;  not  only  as  ra- 
tional^ bvit  social;  not  only  as  social,  but  inunortal. 

Art  tliou  puor^ — Show  thyself  active  and  industrious, 
peaceable  and  contented.  Art  thou  wealthy? — Show  thy- 
self beneficent  and  charitable,  condescending-  and  humane. 

Thoug-h  religion  removes  not  all  the  evils  of  life,  though 
it  promises  no  continuance  of  undisturbed  prosperity,  (which 
indeed  it  were  not  salutary  for  man  always  to  enjoy,)  yet,  if 
it  mitig:atos  the  evils  which  necessarily  belong  to  our  state, 
it  may  jiistly  be  said  to  give  "  rest  to  them  who  labour  and 
are  heavy  laden." 

What  a  smiling  aspect  does  the  love  of  parents  and  chil- 
dren, of  brothers  and  sisters,  of  friends  and  relations,  give 
to  everv"  surrounding  object,  and  every  returning  day  !  ^Vilh 
what  a  lustre  does  it  gild  even  tlie  small  habitatior,  where 
this  placid  intercourse  dwells  !  where  such  scene?  of  heart- 
felt satisfaction  succeed  uninterruptedly  to  one  another  ! 

How  many  clear  marks  of  benevolent  intention  appear 
every  where  around  us  I  What  a  profussion  of  beauty  and 
ornament,  is  poured  forth  on  the  face  of  nature !  What  a 
magniljcent  spectacle  presented  to  the  view  of  man  !  What 
supply  contrived  for  his  wants !  What  a  variety  of  objects 
set  before  him,  to  gratify  his  senses,  to  employ  his  under- 
standing, to  entertain  his  imagination,  to  cheer  and  gladden 
his  heart  I 

The  hope  of  future  happmess,  is  a  perpetual  source  of 
consolation  to  good  men.  Under  trouble,  it  soothes  their 
minds ;  amidst  temptation,  it  supports  their  virtue,  and,  in 
their  dying  moments,  enables  tliem  to  say,  "  O  death !  where 
is  thy  sting  ?  O  grave  I  where  is  thv  victory  ?" 
SECTION  VII. 

AGESILAUS,  king  of  Sparta,  being  asked  "  What  things 
he  thought  most  proper  for  hoys  to  learn,"  answered,  "  Those 
which  they  ought  to  j)rac?iVe  wheiij|hey  come  to  be  rnen." 
A  wiser  than  Agesilaus,  has  inculc^^cT the  same  sentiment: 
"  Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  5^BfcZ  go,  and  when  he  is 
old  he  irill  not  depart  from  it."         ^Wi 

An  Italian  philosopher  expressed  in  Bs  motto,  that  *^t^m^ 
was  his  estate.''^  An  estate  indeed  which  will  produce  no- 
thing without  cultivation ;  but  which  will  always  abundant- 
ly re|;ay  tlie  laboui's  of  industry,  and  satisfv  the  most  exten- 
sive desire?,  if  no  part  of  it  be  suffered  to  lie  waste  by  neg- 
ligence to  be  overrun  with  noxious  plants,  or  laid  out  for 
show  rnihcT  than  use. 

Vv  lien  Aristotle  was  asked,  "  What  a  man  could  gain  by 


26  TTie  English  Reader.  Parti. 

tellings  a  faUehood,'"  he  replied,  "  JN'ot  to  be  credited  wl.en 
lie  speaks  the  truth.'''' 

L'l->traiig-e,  in  his  Fables,  tells  us  that  a  number  of  fro- 
licsoina  b<jys  were  one  daj'  watchin;^  frogs,  at  tlic  side  of  a 
pond  ;  and  Lhat,  as  any  of  them  put  their  heads  above  the 
water,  they  pelted  tliem  down  again  Avith  stones.  One  ol 
the  frogs,  appealing  to  tlie  humanity  of  the  boys,  made  this 
striking  observation;  "  Children,  ycu  do  not  consider,  that 
though  this  may  be  sport  to  you,  it  is  death  to  t«." 

Sully,  the  great  statesman  of  France,  always  retained  at 
his  table,  ia  his  most  prosperous  days,  the  same  frugality  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed  in  early  life.  He  was  fre- 
quently reproached  by  the  courtiers,  for  this  simplicity ;  but 
he  used  to  reply  to  them,  in  the  words  of  an  ancient  philo- 
sopher: "  If  the  guests  are  men  of  sense,  there  is  sufficient 
for  them :  if  they  are  not,  I  can  very  well  dispense  with 
trieir  company." 

Socrates,  tliough  primarily  attentive  to  the  culture  of  his 
m>7ul,  was  not  negligent  of  his  external  appearance.  His 
cleanliness  resulted  from  those  ideas  of  order  and  decency, 
which  governed  all  his  actions;  and  the  care  which  he  took 
of  his  health,  from  his  desire  to  presen'e  his  mind  free  and 
tranquil. 

Eminently  pleasing  and  honourable,  was  the  friendshif 
between  David  and  Jonathan.  "  I  am  distressed  for  thee, 
my  brother  Jonathan,"  said  the  plaintive  and  surviving  Da- 
vid ;  *'  very  pleasant  hast  thou  been  to  me  :  thy  love  for  me 
was  wonderful ;  passing  the  love  of  toomcn." 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  at  thebattienearZutphen,  was  wounds 
ed  by  a  musket  ball,  which  broke  the  bone  of  his  thigh. 
He  was  carried  about  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  camp ;  and 
being  faint  with  the  loss  of  blood,  and  probably  parched 
with  thirst  through  the  heat  of  the  weatlier,  he  called  foi 
drink.  It  was  immediately  brought  to  him  :  but,  as  he  v.-as 
putting  the  vessel  to  his  mouth,  a  poor  wounded  soldier,  who 
happened  at  that  instant  to  be  carried  by  him,  looked  up  to 
it  with  wishful  eyes.  -The  gallant  and  generous  Sidney, 
took  the  bottle  fromJjSs  mouth,  and  delivered  it  to  the  sol- 
dier, saying,  "  TAj/ Necessity  is  yet  s:reater  than  r/i/ne." 

Alexander  the  Great,  demanded  of  a  pirate,  whom  he  had 
taken,  by  what  right  he  infested  the  seasr  "  By  the  same 
right,"  replied  he,  "  that  Alexander  enslaves  the  world. 
But  I  am  called  a  robber,  because  I  have  only  one  small 
vessel :  and  he  is  styled  a  conqueror,  because  he  commands 
great  fleets  and  armies."  We  too  often  judge  of  meu  by 
the  splendour,  and  not  by  the  merit  of  tlieir  actions. 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences,  kc.  27 

Antoninus  Pius,  the  Roman  Emperor,  was  an  amiable  and 
good  man.  When  any  of  his  courtiers  attempted  to  inflame 
him  with  a  passion  for  military  glorj-,  be  used  to  answer: 
'•  T.'iat  he  more  desired  the  preset^a'tion  of  one  subject,  tha.n 
the  destruction  of  a  thousand  enemies.'''' 

!Men  are  too  often  ingenious  in  making  themselves  mise- 
rable, by  aggravating  to  their  own  fancy,  beyond  bounds,  all 
the  evils  which  they  endure.  They  compare  themselves  with 
none  but  those  whom  they  imagine  to  be  more  happy  ;  and 
complain,  tliat  upon  them  alone  has  fallen  tlie  whole  load  of 
human  sorrows.  Would  they  look  with  a  more  impartial 
eye  on  the  world,  they  would  see  themselves  surrounded 
witli  sufferers ;  and  find  that  tliey  are  only  drinking  out  of 
that  mixed  cup,  which  Providence  has  prepared  tor  all. — "  I 
will  restore  thy  daughter  again  to  life,  said  an  eastern  sage 
to  a  prince  who  grieved  immoderately  for  the  loss  of  a  belov- 
ed child,"  provided  thou  art  able  to  engrave  on  her  tomb, 
the  names  of  three  persons  who  have  never  mourned."  The 
prince  made  inquiry  after  such  persons ;  but  found  the  inqui- 
ly  vain,  and  was  silent. 

SECTION  VIII. 

He  that  hath  no  rule  over  his  own  spirit,  is  like  a  city 
that  is  broken  down,  and  without  walls. 

A  so/if  answer  turneth  away  wrath;  hutgrievous  words  stir 
up  anger. 

Better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is.  than  a  stalled  ox 
and  hatred  therewith. 

Pride  goeth  before  destruction ;  and  a  haughty  spirit  be- 
fore a  fall. 

Hear  counsel,  and  receive  instruction,  that  thou  raayest 
be  truly  wise. 

Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  ^friend;  but  the  kisses  of  an 
enemy  are  deceitful.     Open  rebuke,  is  better  than  secret  love. 

Seest  thou  a  man  wise  in  his  01071  conceit  ?  There  is  more 
hope  of  a.  fool  than  of  him. 

He  that  is  slow  to  anger,  is  better  than  the  might)' ;  and 
he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he  that  taketh  a  city. 

He  that  hath  pit}-  on  the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord;  that 
which  he  hath  given,  will  he  pay  him  again. 

If  thine  enemy  be  hungry,  give  him  treat/ to  eat ;  and  if  he 
be  thirsty,  give  him  water  to  drink. 

He  that  planted  the  ear,  shall  he  no',  hear?  He  that  form- 
ed the  eye,  shall  he  not  see  ? 

I'have  been  young,  and  now  I  am  old;  yet  have  I  nevei 
seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread. 


28  The  Englisn  Header.  Part  I. 

It  is  better  to  be  a  door-keeper  m  the  house  of  the  Lord, 
than  to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  wickedness. 

I  have  seen  the  wicked  in  great  power,  and  spreading 
himself  like  a  green  ba3'-tree.  Yet  he  passed  away  :  1 
soug-ht  him,  but  he  could  not  be  found. 

ilappy  is  the  man  that  fmdelh  wisdom.  Length  of  days 
is  ia  her  right  hand  ;  and  in  her  left  hand,  riches  and  hoa- 
ou  r.  Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  patlis 
are  peace. 

How  good  and  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  togeth- 
er in  wn/i///  It  is  like  precious  omtment:  Like  the  dew  of  Her- 
mon,  andtheaew  that  descended  upon  the  mountains  of  Zion. 

The  sluggard  will  not  plough  by  reason  of  the  cold ;  he 
shall  therefore  beg  in  harvest,  and  have  nothing. 

I  went  by  (he  field  of  the  slothful,  and  by  the  vineyard  of 
the  man  void  of  understanding :  and,  lo  I  it  was  all  grown 
over  with  thorns;  nettles  had  covered  its  face,  and  Ihe  stone 
wall  was  broken  down.  Then  I  saw,  and  considered  it 
well ;  I  looked  upon  it,  and  recieved  instruction. 

Honourable  age  is  not  that  which  standetb  in  length  of 
time;  nor  that  which  is  measured  by  number  of  years: — 
But  w/sc/orn  is  the  gray  hair  toman,  and  an  unspotted  life  is 
old  age. 

Solomon,  my  son,  know  thou  the  God  of  thy  fathers 
and  serve  him  with  a  perfect  heait,  and  with  a  willing  mind. 
If  thou  seek  him,  he  will  be  found  of  thee  ;  but  if  thouforsake 
him,  he  will  cast  thee  off  for  ever. 

SECTION  IX 

That  eiery  day  has  its  pains  and  sorrows,  is  universally 
experienced,  and  almost  universally  confessed.  But  let  us 
not  attend  only  to  mournful  trutlis :  if  we  look  impartially 
about  us,  we  shall  find  tliat  every  day  has  likewise  its  plea- 
sures and  its  joys. 

We  should  cherish  sentiments  of  charity  towards  all  men 
The  Author  of  all  good,  nourishes  much  piety  and  virtue  in 
hearts  that  are  unknown  to  us  ;  and  beholds  repentance 
ready  to  spring  up  among  many,  whom  tre  consider  as  rep- 
7'ob((tes. 

No  one  ought  to  consider  liimsclf  as  insignificant  in  ihe 
siglit  of  his  Creator.  '  In  our  several  stations,  we  are  ail  sent 
fortli  to  be  labourers  in  the  vineyard  of  our  lieavenly  Father. 
Every  man  has  his  work  allotted,  his  talent  committed  lo 
him ;  by  the  due  impovement  of  which,  he  may,  in  one 
way  or* otlier,  serve  God,  promote  virtue,  and  be  useful  in 
Uie  world. 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences,  tSpc.  29 

The  love  of  praise  should  be  preserved  under  proper  sub- 
ordination to  the  principle  of  duty.  In  itself,  it  is  a  useful  mo- 
tive to  action ;  but  when  allowed  to  extend  its  iuiluence  too 
far,  it  corrupts  the  whole  character,  and  produces  guilt,  dis- 
grace, and  misery.  To  be  entirely  destitute  of  it,  is  a  defect. 
To  be  governed  by  it,  is  depravity.  The  proper  adjustment 
of  the  several  principles  of  action  in  human  nature,  is  a  mat- 
ter that  deserves  our  highest  attention.  For  when  any  one 
of  them  becomes  either  too  weak  or  too  strong,  it  endangers 
both  our  virtue  and  our  happiness. 

Tlie  desires  and  passions  of  ^vicious  man,  having  ome  ob- 
tained an  unlimited  sway,  trample  him  under  their  feet. 
They  make  him  feel  that  he  is  subject  to  various,  contradic- 
tory' and  imperious  masters,  who  often  pull  him  different 
ways.  His  soul  is  rendered  the  receptacle  of  many  repug- 
nant and  jarring  dispositions,  and  resembles  some  barbarous 
country,  cantoned  out  into  diiferent  principalities,  which  are 
continually  waging  war  on  one  another. 

Diseases,  poverty,  disappointment,  and  shame,  are  far  from 
being,  in  every  instance,  the  unavoidable  doom  of  man. 
They  are  much  more  fi'equently  the  offspring  of  his  own  mis- 
guided choice.  Intemperance  engenders  disease,  sloth  pro- 
duces jioverty,  pride  creates  disappointments,  and  dishonesty 
exposes  to  shame.  The  ungoverned  passions  of  men,  be- 
trav  them  into  a  tliousand  follies  ;  their  follies  into  crimes ; 
and  their  crimes  into  misfortunes. 

Wtien  we  reflect  on  the  many  distresses  which  abound  in 
human  life,  on  the  scant)'  proportion  of  happiness  which  any 
man  is  here  allowed  to  enjoy  ;  on  the  small  difference  which 
the  diversity  of  fortune  makes  on  that  scanty  proportion  ;  it 
is  surprising  that  envy  should  ever  have  been  a  prevalent  pas- 
sion among  men,  much  more  that  it  should  have  prevailed 
among  Christians.  Where  so  much  is  suffered  in  common, 
little  room  is  left  for  envy.  There  is  more  occasion  for  pity, 
and  sympath}',  ana  an  inclination  to  assist  each  other. 

At  our  iirs{  setting  out  in  life,  when  yet  unacquainted  with 
the  world  and  its  snares,  when  every  pleasure  enchants  with 
its  smile,  and  every  object  shines  with  the  gloss  of  novelty, 
let  us  beware  of  the  seducing  appearances  which  surround 
us  ;  and  recollect  what  others  have  suffered  from  the  power 
of  headstrong  desire.  If  we  allow  any  passion,  even  though 
it  be  esteemed  innocent,  to  acquire  an  absolute  ascendant, 
our  inward  peace  will  be  impaired.  But  if  any,  which  has 
the  taint  of  guilt,  take  early  possession  of  our  mind  we  may 
date,  from  that  moment,  the  ruin  of  our  tranquillity. 

Ever^'  man  has  some  darling-  passion,  which  generally 
C2 


30  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

affords  the  first  introduction  to  vice.  The  irregular  gratifj- 
catioiis,  into  wliich  it  occasionally  seduccb  him,  appear  un- 
der the  form  oi  venial  weaknesbes,  and  are  indulged  in  the 
beginning,  whh  scrupulousness  and  reserve.  But,  by  long- 
er practice,  those  restraints  weaken,  and  the  power  of  hab- 
it grows.  One  vice  brings  in  another  to  its  aid.  Uy  a  sort 
of  natural  affinity,  they  connect  and  entwine  themselves  to- 
gether, till  tl'.eir  roots  come  to  be  spread  wide  and  deep  over 
ail  tlic  soul. 

SECTION  X. 

WHENCE  arises  ihe  misery  of  this  present  world?  It  is 
not  owing  to  our  cloudy  atmosphere,  our  changing  seasons 
and  inclement  skies.  It  is  not  osving  to  the  debilit)'  of  our 
bodies,  nor  to  the  unequal  distribution  of  the  goods  of  for- 
tune. Amidst  all  disadvantages  oilhis  kind,  a  pure,  a  stead- 
fast, and  enlightened  mind,  possessed  of  strong  virtue, 
could  enjoy  itself  in  peace,  and  smile  at  the  impotent  assaults 
of  fortune  and  the  elements.  It  is  within  ourselves  that  mise- 
ry has  iixed  its  seat.  Our  disordered  hearts,  our  guilt)'  pas- 
sions, our  violent  prejudices,  and  misplaced  desires,  are  the 
instruments  of  tlie  trouble  which  we  endure.  These  sharp- 
en the  darts  which  culversity  would  otherwise  point  in  vain 
against  us. 

While  the  vain  and  the  licentious,  are  revelling  in  the 
midst  of  extravagance  and  riot,  how  little  do  they  think  of 
those  scenes  of  sore  distress,  which  are  passing  at  that  mo- 
ment throughout  the  world;  multitudes  stiniggling  for  a  poor 
subsistence,  to  support  the  wife  and  children  whcm  they 
love,  and  who  look  up  to  them,  with  eager  eyes,  for  tl;at 
bread  which  they  can  hai'dly  procure  ;  multitudes  groaning 
Uiider  sickness  in  desolate  cottages,  untended,  and  unmourn- 
ed  ;  many  apparently  in  a  better  situation  of  life,  pining  away 
in  secret  with  concealed  griefs  ;  tamilies  weeping  over  the 
Y^eXoveA  friends  whom  they  have  lost,  or  in  all  the  bittterncss 
of  anguish,  bidding  those  who  are  just  expiring,  the  last 
adieu. 

Never  adventure  on  too  near  an  approach  to  what  is  evil. 
Famiiiari^.e  not  yourselves  Avithit,  in  the  slightest  instances, 
witiioui  /V«>'.  Listen  with  reverence  to  every  reprehension 
of  conscience,  and  preserve  the  most  quick  and  accurate 
sensibility  to  right  and  wrong.  If  ever  \ our  moral  impres- 
sions begin  to  decay,  and  your  natural  abhorrence  of  guilt 
(o  lessen,  you  have  ground  to  dread  that  the  rum  of  virtue  is 
fast  approaching. 
By  disappointments  arid  trials  the  violence   of  our  poj- 


Chap.  1.  Select  Seniences,  &:c.  31 

sions  is  tamed,  and  our  minds  are  formed  to  sobricly  and 
reflection.  In  the  varieties  of  life,  occasioned  by  th3  vicis- 
situdes of  worldly  fortune,  Tve  are  inured  to  habits  both  or 
the  active  and  the  sutteriny  virtues.  How  much  soever  we 
complain  of  the  vanity  of  the  world,  facts  plainlj-  show,  that 
if  its  vanity  were  less,  it  could  not  answer  the  purpose  of 
salutary  discipline.  Unsatisfactory  as  it  is,  its  pleasures  are 
still  too  apt  to  corrupt  our  hearts.  How  fatal  then  must  the 
•  consequences  have  been,  had  it  yielded  us  more  complete 
enjoyment?  If,  with  all  its  troubles,  we  are  in  danger  of 
being-  too  much  attached  to  it,  how  entirely  would  it  have 
seduced  our  aiJections,  if  no  troubles  had  been  mingled  with 
its  pleasures  ? 

In  seasons  of  disti-ess  or  difficulty,  to  abandon  ourselves 
to  dejection,  carries  no  mark  of  a  great  or  worthy  mind. 
Instead  of  sinking  under  trouble,  and  declaring  "  that  his 
soul  is  weary  of  life,"  it  becomes  a  wise  and  a  good  man, 
in  the  evil  day,  witlt  firmness  to  niaintam  his  post ;  to  bear 
up  against  the  storm  ;  to  have  recourse  to  those  advantages 
which,  in  the  worst  of  times,  are  always  left  to  integrity  and 
virtue ;  and  never  to  give  up  the  hope  ihat  better  days  may 
yet  arise. 

How  many  young  persons  have,  at  first,  set  out  in  ths 
world  with  excellent  dispositions  of  heart  ;  generous,  char- 
itable, and  humane  ;  kind  to  their  friends,  and  amiable 
among  aU  with  whom  they  had  intercourse  !  And  yet,  how 
often  have  we  seen  all  those  fair  appearances,  unhappily 
blasted  in  the  progress  of  life,  merely  through  the  influence 
of  loose  and  corrupting  pleasures:  and  those  very  persons, 
who  promised  once  to  be  blessings  to  the  world,  sunk  down, 
in  the  end,  to  be  the  burden  and  nuisance  of  society. 

The  most  common  propensity  of  mankind,  is,  to  store  fu- 
turity with  whatever  is  agreeable  to  them  ;  especially  m 
those  periods  of  life,  when  imagination  is  lively,  and  hope  is 
ardent.  Looking  forward  to  the  year  now  beginning,  they 
are  ready  to  promise  themselves  much,  from  the  foundations 
of  prosperity  which  they  have  laid:  ivomi\\e  friendships  and 
connexions  which  they  have  secured  ;  and  from  the  plans  of 
conduct  which  they  have  fonned.  Alas !  how  deceitful  do 
all  these  dreams  of  happiness  often  prove  !  While  man  v  are 
saying  in  secret  to  their  hearts,  "  To-morrow  shall  be  as 
this  day,  and  more  abundantly,"  we  are  obliged,  in  return, 
to  say  to  them,  "  Boast  not  yourselves  of  to-morrow ;  for  you 
knovv  not  wliat  a  cZcfy  may  bring  forth  1" 


32  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

CHAP.  II. 

NARRATIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Js''o  rank  or  possessions  can  make  the  guilty  mind  happy. 

DIONYSIUS,  the  IjTant  of  Sicily,  was  far  from  being  hap- 
pv,  though  he  possessed  irreat  riclies,  and  all  the  pleasures 
\rhich  wealth  and  power  could  procure.  Damocles,  one  of 
his  flatterers,  deceived  by  those  specious  appearances  ol 
happiness,  took  occasion  to  compliment  him  on  the  extent 
of  his  power,  his  treasures,  and  royal  magnificence  :  and 
declared  that  no  monarch  had  ever  been  greater  or  happier 
than  Dionysius. 

2  "  Hast  thou  a  mind.  Damocles,"  says  the  king,  "  to 
laste  this  happiness;  and  to  know  by  experience,  what  ;he 
eojo)'ments  are,  of  which  thou  hast  so  high  an  idea  .'"  Dam- 
ocles, with  joy  accepted  the  offer.  The  king  ordered  that  a 
royal  banquet  should  be  prepared,  and  a  gilded  sufa,  cover- 
ed with  rich  embroidery,  placed  for  his  favourite.  Side- 
boards, loaded  with  gold  and  silver  plate,  of  immense  value, 
VTere  arranged  in  the  apartment. 

3  Pages  of  extraordinary  beauty,  vere  ordered  to  attend 
his  table,  and  to  obey  his  commands  with  the  utmost  readi 
ness,  and  tlie  most  profound  submission.  Fragrant  oint- 
ments, chaplets  of  flowers  and  rich  perfumes,  were  added 
to  the  entertainment.  The  table  was  loaded  with  tlie  most 
exquisite  delicacies  of  every  kind.  Damocles,  intoxicated 
with  pleasure,  fancied  himself  among  superiour  beings. 

4  But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  happiness,  as  he  lay  indul- 
gmg  himself  in  state,  he  sees  let  down  from  the  ceiling,  ex- 
actly over  his  head,  a  glittering  sword,  hung  by  a  smgle 
l:air.  The  sight  of  impending  destruction,  put  a  speedy  end 
lo  his  joy  and  revelling.  The  pomp  of  his  attendants,  the 
glitter  of  the  carved  plate,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  viands, 
cease  to  afford  him  any  pleasure. 

5  He  dreads  to  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  the  table.  He 
throws  off  the  garland  of  roses.  He  hastens  to  remove  from 
his  dangerous  situation,  and  earnestly  entreats  ilie  king  lo 
restore  him  to  his  former  humble  condition,  having  no  desire 
to  enjoy  any  longer  a  happiness  so  terrible. 

6  By  this  device,  Dionysius  intimated  to  Damocles,  how 
miserable  he  was  in  the  midst  of  all  his  treasuies  ;  and  in 
possession  of  all  the  honours  and  enjo}Tnents  which  royalty 
could  bestow.  cicero. 


Chap.  2.  JWirrative  Pieces.  S3 

SECTION  II. 

Change  of  external  condition  is  often  adverse  to  viriue, 

IN  the  days  of  Joram,  king  of  Israel,  flourished  the  pro- 
phet Elisha.  His  character  was  so  eminent,  and  his  fame  so 
widely  spread,  that  Benhadad,  the  king-  of  Syria,  though 
an  idolater,  sent  to  consult  him,  concerning  the  issue  of  a 
distemper  which  threatened  his  life.  The  messeng-er  em- 
ploved  on  this  occasion  was  Hazael,  who  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  the  princes,  or  chief  men  of  the  Syrian  court. 

2  Charged  witli  rich  gifts  from  the  king,  he  presents  him- 
self before  the  prophet,  and  accosts  him  in  terms  of  the  high- 
est respect.  During  the  conference  which  they  held  to- 
gether, Elisha  iixed  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  countenance 
of  Hazael,  and  discerning,  by  a  prophetic  spirit,  his  future 
tyranny  and  cruelty,  he  could  not  contain  himself  from 
bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

3  When  Hazael  in  surprise,  inquired  into  the  cause  of 
this  sudden  emotion,  the  propliet  plainly  informed  him  of  the 
crimes  and  barbarities,  which  he  foresaw  that  he  would  after- 
waids  commit.  The  soul  of  Hazael  abhorred,  at  this  time, 
the  thoughts  of  cruelty.  Uncorrupted,  as  yet,  by  ambitioa 
or  greatness,  his  indignation  rose  at  being  thought  capable 
of  the  savage  actions  which  the  prophet  had  mentioned  ; 
and  with  much  warmth,  he  replies  ;  "  But  ichat  I  is  thy 
servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  this  great  thing  ? 

4  Elisha  makes  no  return,  but  to  point  out  a  remarkable 
change,  which  was  to  take  place  in  his  condition ;  "The 
Lord  hath  shown  me,  that  thou  shalt  be  king  over  Syria." 
In  course  of  time,  all  tliat  had  been  predicted  came  to  pass. 
Hazael  ascended  the  throne,  and  ambition  took  possession  of 
his  heart.  "  He  smote  the  children  of  Israel  in  all  their 
coasts.  He  oppressed  them  during  all  the  days  of  king  Je- 
hoahaz  :  and,  from  what  is  left  on  record  of  his  actions,  be 
plainly  appears  to  have  proved,  what  the  prophet  foresaw 
Liim  to  be,  a  man  of  violence,  cruelty  and  blood. 

5  In  this  passage  of  history,  an  object  is  presented,  which 
deserves  our  serious  attention.  We  behold  a  man  who  in  one 
state  of  life,  could  not  look  upon  certain  crimes  without  sur- 
prise and  horror  ;  who  knew  so  little  of  himself,  as  to  believe 
it  impossible  for  him  ever  to  be  concerned  in  committing 
them;  that  same  man,  by  a  change  of  condition,  and  an  un- 
g'uarded  stale  of  mind,  ti-ansformed  in  all  his  sentiments ; 
and  as  he  rose  in  greatness,  rising  also  in  guilt,  till  at  last 


34  The  Eriglkh  Reaaer.  Part  1. 

he  completed  that  whole  character  of  iniquity,  which  he 
once  detested.  blair. 

SECTION  III. 
Human;  or  the  misery  of  pride. 
AHASHUERUS,  who  is  supposed  to  be  the  prince  known 
among  ttie  Greek  historians  by  the  nan^ie  of  Artaxerxes, 
had  advanced  to  the  cliief  dignity  in  his  kingdom,  Han;an, 
an  Amalekite,  who  inherited  all  the  ancient  enmity  of  his 
race,  to  the  Jewish  nation.  He  appears,  from  what  is  re- 
corded of  him,  to  have  been  a  very  wicked  minister.  Rais- 
ed to  g-rcatness  without  merit,  he  employed  his  power  solely 
for  the  gTatificalion  of  his  passions. 

2  As  the  honours  which  he  possessed  were  next  to  royal, 
liis  pride  was  every  day  fed  with  that  sevile  homage,  which 
is  peculiar  to  Asiatic  courts  ;  and  all  the  servants  of  the  king 
prostrated  themselves  before  him.  In  the  midst  of  this  gen- 
eral adulation,  one  person  only  stooped  not  to  Haman. 

3  This  was  xtlordecai  the  Jew  ;  who,  knowing  this  Ama- 
lekite to  be  an  enemy  to  the  people  of  God,  and,  witli  vir- 
tuous indignation,  despising  that  insolence  of  prosperity  with 
v.-hichhe  saw  him  lifted  up,  "bowed  not,  nor  did  him  rev- 
erence." On  this  appearance  of  disrespect  from  JMordecai, 
Haman  "  was  full  of  wrath  :  btit  he  thought  scorn  to  lay 
hands  on  Mordecai  alone."  Personal  revenge  was  not 
sufficient  to  satisfy  him. 

4  So  violent  and  black  were  his  passions,  that  he  resolv- 
ed to  exterminate  tlie  whole  nation  to  which  P.Iordecai  be- 
longed. Abusing,  for  his  cruel  purpose,  the  favour  of  his 
credulous  sovereign,  he  obtained  a  decree  to  be  sent  forth, 
that,  against  a  certain  day,  all  the  Jews  throughout  the 
Persian  dominions,  should  be  put  to  the  sword. 

5  Meanwhile,  confident  of  success,  and  blind  to  approach- 
ing ruin,  he  continued  exulting  in  his  prosperity-.  Invited 
byAhashuerus  to  a  royal  banquet,  which  Esther  the  queen 
had  prepared,  "  he  went  forth  that  day  joyful,  and  with  a 
glad  heart."  But  behold  how  slight  an  incident,  was  suf- 
ficient to  poison  his  joy  !  As  he  went  forth,  he  saw  J\Iorde- 
cai  in  tlie  king's  gate  ;  and  observed  that  he  still  refused  to 
do  him  homage.  "  He  stood  not  up,  nor  moved  for 
him  ;  although  he  well  knew  the  formidable  designs,  which 
Haman  was  preparing  to  execute. 

6  One  private  man,  who  despised  his  greatness,  and  dis- 
dained submission,  while  a  whole  kingdom  trembled  before 
him;  one  spirit,  which  the  utmost  stretch  of  his  power 
could   neither    subdue    nor  humble,  blasted  his  tinumptis. 


Chap.  2  .Narrative  Pieces.  35 

His  whole  soul  was  shaken  with  a  storm  of  passion.  "Wratli, 
pride,  and  desire  of  reveng-e,  rose  into  fur}'.  With  difficulty 
lie  restrained  himself  in  public  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  came  to 
hie  own  house,  he  was  forced  to  disclose  the  ajony  of  his 
mind. 

7  He  gathered  together  his  friends  and  family,  with  Ze- 
resh  his  wife.  "  He  told  them  of  the  giorj'  of  his  riches,  and 
the  multitude  of  his  children,  and  of  all  the  things  wherein 
the  king  had  promoted  him  ;  and  how  he  had  advanced  him 
above  the  princes  and  servants  of  the  king.  He  said,  more- 
over. Yea,  Esther  the  queen,  suffered  no  man  to  come  ia 
with  the  king,  to  the  banquet  that  she  had  prepared,  but 
myself ;  and  to-morrow  also  am  I  invited  to  her  with  the 
king."  After  all  this  preamble,  what  is  the  conclusion? 
"•'Yet  all  this  availeth  me  nothing,  so  long  as  I  see  Mordecai 
the  Jew,  sitting  at  the  king's  gate." 

8  The  sequel  of  Haman's  history,  I  shall  not  now  pursue. 
It  might  afford  matter  for  much  instruction,  by  the  conspicu- 
ous justice  of  God  in  his  fall  and  punishment.  But  con- 
templating only  the  singular  situation,  in  which  the  expres- 
sions just  quoted  present  him,  and  the  violent  agitation  of 
his  mind  which  they  display,  the  following  reflections  natural- 
ly arise  ;  How  miserable  is  vice  when  one  guilty  passion 
creates  so  much  torment  I  ho^v  unavailing  is  prosperit}', 
when,  in  the  height  of  it,  a  single  disappointment,  can  destroy 
the  relish  of  all  its  pleasures  1  how  weak  is  human  nature, 
v.'hich,  in  the  absence  of  real,  is  thus  prone  to  form  to  itself 
imaginary  woes  I  bi.aib. 

SECTION  IV. 

■  Lady  Jane  Gray. 

THIS  excellent  personage,  was  descended  from  the  royal 
line  of  England  by  both  her  parents.  She  was  carefully  ed- 
ucated in  tlie  principles  of  the  reformation  ;  and  her  wis- 
dom and  virtue  rendered  her  a  shining  example  to  her  sex. 
But  it  was  her  lot  to  continue  only  a  short  period  on  this 
stage  of  being;  for,  in  early  life,  she  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the 
wild  ambition  of  the  duke  of  Northumberland,  who  promot- 
ed a  marriag-e  between  her  and  his  son,  lord  Guilford  Dud- 
ley ;  and  raised  her  to  the  throne  of  England,  in  opposition 
to  the  rights  of  Mary  and  Elizabeth. 

:  2  At  tlie  time  of  their  marriage,  she  was  only  about  eigh- 
teen years  of  age  ;  and  her  husband  wvls  2.\so  very  voung:  a 
season  of  life  very  uneoiial  to  oppose  the  interested  views  of 
aitful  and  aspiring-  men.  who,  instead  of   exposing  them 


36  77te  English  Reader.  Part  I 

to  dang-er,  should  have  been  llie  protectors  of  their   inno- 
cence and  youth. 

3  This  extraordinary  young-  person,  besides  the  solid  en- 
doirmcnts  of  piety  and  virtue,  possessed  the  most  engag-ing 
disposition,  the  most  accomplished  parts;  and  being- of  an 
equal  age  with  king  Edtvard  VI,  she  had  received  all  her 
education  -with  him,  and  seemed  even  to  possess  a  greater 
facility  in  acquiring-  every  part  of  manly  and  classical  lite- 
rature. , 

4  She  had  attained  a  knowledg-e  of  the  Roman  and  Greek 
languages,  as  well  as  of  several  w^jJem  tongues;  had  passed 
most  of  her  time  in  an  application  to  learning ;  and  expies- 
.sed  a  great  indifference  for  other  occupations  and  amuse- 
ments usual  with  her  sex  and  station. 

5  Roger  Ascham,  tutor  to  the  lady  Elizabeih,  having-  at 
one  tim.e  paid  her  a  visit,  found  her  employed  in  reading 
Plato,  while  the  rest  of  the  family  were  engag-ed  in  a  party 
of  hunting  in  tlie  park  ;  and  upon  his  admiring  the  sing^iiar- 
ityof  her  choice,  she  told  him,  that  she '' received  more 
pleasure  from  th^t  author,  than  others  could  reap  from  ail 
their  sport  and  gaiety." 

6  Her  heart,  replete  with  this  love  of  literature  and  seri 
ous  studies,  and  with  tenderness  towards  her  husband,  who 
was  deserving  of  her  affection,  had  never  opened  itself  to  the 
flattering-  allurements  of  ambition  ;  and  the  information  of 
her  advancement  to  the  throne,  ^rzs  by  no  means  agrecohle 
to  her.  She  even  refused  to  accept  the  crown ;  pleaded  the 
preferable  rig-ht  of  the  two  princesses  ;  expressed  her  dread 
of  the  consequences  attending-  an  enterprise  so  dangerous, 
not  to  say  so  criminal ;  and  desired  to  remain  in  that  private 
station  in  whic'u  she  was  born. 

7  Overcome  at  last  with  the  entreaties  rather  than  the  rea- 
sons,  of  her  fatlier  and  father-in-law,  and  above  all,  of  her 
husband,  she  submitred  to  their  will,  and  was  prevailed  on 
to  relinquish  her  oicn  judgment.  But  her  elevation  was  of 
very  short  continuance.  The  nation  declared  for  queen 
Mary  ;  and  the  lady  Jane,  after  wearing  the  vain  pageant- 
ry of  a  crown  during  ten  days,  returned  to  a  private  iile,  with 
much  more  satisfaction  than  she  felt  when  royalt}  was  ten- 
dered to  her. 

8  Queen  Mary,  who  appears  to  have  been  incapable  of 
generosity  or  clemency,  determined  to  rem.ove  evcrv  per- 
son, from  whom  the  least  danger  could  be  apprehended 
Warning  was,  therefore,  given  to  lady  Jane  to  prepare  for 
(Jeath  ;  a  doom  which  slie  had  expected,  and  which  tlie  in- 
nocence of  h'iV  life,  as  well  as  the  misfortunes  to  which  she 


Chap.  2.  JiTarrative  Pieces.  37 

bad  been  exposed,  rendered  no  unwelcome   news  to  her. 

9  The  queen's  big-oted  zeal,  under  colour  of  tender  mercy 
to  the  prisoner's  soul,  induced  her  to  send  priests,  who 
molested  her  with  perpetual  disputation  ;  and  even  a  re- 
prieve of  three  days  was  granted  her,  in  hopes  that  she 
would  be  persuaded,  during  that  time,  to  pay,  by  a  timely 
conversion  to  popery,  some  regard  to  her  eternal  welfare. 

10  Lady  Jane  had  presence  of  mind,  in  those  melancholy 
circumstances,  not  only  to  defend  her  religion  by  solid  ar- 
guments, but  also  to  write  a  letter  to  her  sister,  in  the  Greek 
language,  in  which,  besides  sending  her  a  copy  of  the  Scrip- 
tures in  that  tongue,  she  exhorted  her  to  maintain,  in  everv 
fortune,  a  like  steady  perseverance. 

1 1  On  the  day  of  her  execution,  her  husband,  lord  Guil- 
ford, desired  permission  to  see  her ;  but  she  refused  her  con 
sent,  and  sent  him  word,  that  the  tenderness  of  their  part- 
ing would  overcome  the  fortitude  of  both;  and  would  too 
much  unbend  their  minds  from  that  constancy,  which  their 
approaching  end  required  of  them.  Their  separation,  she 
said,  would  be  only  for  a  moment,  and  they  would  soon  re 
join  each  other  in  a  scene,  where  their  affections  would  be 
forever  united  ;  and  where  death,  disappointment,  and  mis- 
fortune,could  no  longer  have  access  to  them,  or  disturb  their 
eternal  felicity. 

12  It  had  been  intended  to  execute  the  lady  Jane  ana 
lord  Guilford  together  on  the  same  scaffold,  at  1" ower  hill  ; 
but  the  council,  dreading  the  compassion  of  the  people  for 
their  youth,  beauty,  innocence  and  noble  birth,  changed 
tljeir  orders,  and  gave  directions  that  she  should  be  behead- 
ed within  the  \"€rge  of  the  Tower. 

13  She  saw  her  husband  led  to  execution  ;  and  having 
given  him  from  the  window  some  token  of  her  remembi-ance, 
she  waited  with  tranquillity  till  her  own  appointed  hour 
should  bring  her  to  a  like  fate.  She  even  saw  his  headless 
body  carried  back  in  a  cart;  and  found  herself  more  confirm 
ed  by  the  reports  which  she  heard  of  the  constancy  of  his 
end,  than  shaken  by  so  tender  and  melancholy  a  spectacle. 

14  Sir  John  Gage,  constable  of  the  Tower,  when  he  led 
her  to  execution,  desired  her  to  bestow  on  him  some  smal! 
present  wliirh  he  might  keep  as  a  perpetual  memorial  of  her. 
She  gave  him  her  table-book,  in  which  she  had  just  written 
thre"  sentences,  on  seeing  her  husband's  dead  body  ;  one  in 
Greek,  another  in  Latin,  a  tliird  in  English. 

15  The  purport  of  them  was,  "that  hu.aan  justice  was 
against  his  body,  but  Divine  Mercy  would  be  favourable 
to  his  soul  ;  and  that  \iher  fault  deserved  punishnienl,  her 

D 


33  The  English  Reader.  Part  1 

ymtth,  at  Icmt,  and  her  imprudence  were  worthy  of  excuse ; 
and  that  God  and  posterity,  she  trusted,  would  show  licr 
favour."  On  the  scaffold,  she  made  a  speech  to  the  by-stand- 
ers,  in  wliirh  the  mildness  of  her  disposition,  ledhei-  to  take 
the  blame  entirely  on  herself,  witliout  uttering  one  com- 
plaint against  the  severity  with  which  she  had  been  treated. 

IC  She  said,  that  her  offence  was,  not  that  she  had  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  crown,  but  that  she  had  not  rejected  it 
with  sufficient  constancy ;  that  she  had  less  erred  throuf^h 
ambition,  than  (hroug-h  reverence  to  her  parents,  whom  she 
had  been  taught  to  respect  and  obey  ;  that  she  willingly  re- 
ceived death,  as  the  only  satisfaction  which  she  could  now 
make  to  the.  injured  state  ;  and  though  her  infringement  of 
the  laws  had  beenconstrained,she  w^uld  show,  by  her  vol- 
untary submission  to  their  sentence,  that  she  was  desirous  to 
atone  for  that  disobedience,  into  v/hich  too  much  filial  piety 
had  betrayed  her  :  that  she  had  justly  deserved  this  punish- 
ment, for  being  made  the  instrument,  though  the  unwilling 
instrument,  of  the  ambition  of  others ;  and  that  the  story  of 
her  life,  she  hoped,  .might  at  least  be  useful,  by  proving  that 
innocence  excuses  not  great  misdeeds,  if  they  tend  in  any 
way  to  the  destruction  of  the  commonwealth. 

17  After  uttering  these  words,  she  caused  herself  to  be 
disrobed  hy  her  women,  and  with  a  steady,  serene  counte- 
nance, submitted  herself  to  the  executioner.  bume. 

SECTION  V. 
Ortognd;  or,  the  vanity  of  riches. 
AS  Ortogrul  of  Basra,  was  one  day  wandering  along  the 
streets  of  Bagdat,  musing  on  the  varieties  of  merchandise 
which  the  shops  opened  to  his  view  ;  and  observing  the 
different  occupations  which  busied  the  multitude  on  every 
side,  he  was  awakened  from  the  tranquillity  of  meditation, 
by  a  crorcd  that  obstructed  his  passage.  He  raided  his  eyes, 
and  saw  tlie  chief  vizier,  who,  having  returned  from  the  di- 
van, was  entering  liLs  palace. 

2  ()rtogrul  mingled  with  the  attendants  ;  and  b^'ing  sup- 
posed to  have  some  petition  for  the  vizier,  was  permitted  to 
enter.  He  surveyed  the  spaciousness  of  the  apartments, 
admired  the  walls  hung  with  golden  tapestry,  and  the  floors 
covered  with  silken  carpets ;  and  despised  the  simple  neat- 
ness of  his  own  tittle  habitation. 

3  "  Surely,''  said  he  to  himself,  "  this  palace  is  the  seat  ot 
happiness,  where  pleasure  oucceeds  to  pleasure,  and  dis- 
content and  sorrow,  can  have  no  admission.     Whatever  na 
ture  has  providfd  for  the  delight  of  sense,  is  here  spree  d  forth 


CKnji.  2.  jVarrative  Pieces.  39 

to  be  enjoyed  What  can  mortals  hope  or  imag-ine,  which 
the  master  of  this  palace,  has  not  obtained?  The  dishes  of 
liiKury,  cover  his  table  !  the  voice  of  harmony  lulls  him  in 
hi'!  bowers;  he  breatlies  the  fraf^rance  of  the  groves  of  Java, 
and  sleeps  upon  the  down  of  the  cyg'nets  of  the  Gang-es. 

4  He  speaks,  and  liis  mandate  is  obeyed;  he  wishes,  and 
his  wish  is  gratitied ;  all,  whom  he  sees,  obey  him,  and  all, 
^\hoin  he  hear",  flatter  him.  How  different,  O  Ortogrul, 
is  'hi/  condition,  who  art  doomed  to  the  perpetual  torments 
of  imsatisfied  desire ;  and  who  hast  no  amusement  in  thy 
power,  that  can  withhold  thee  from  thy  own  reflections ! 

5  They  tell  the  that  thou  art  wise ;  but  what  does  wisdom 
avail  wlthpoverti/  ?  None  will  flatter  the  poor ;  and  the  wise 
have  very  little  power  of  flattering  themselves.  That  man  is 
surely  the  most  wretched  of  the  sons  of  wretchedness,  who 
lives  with  his  own  faults  and  follies  always  before  him ;  and 
wi;o  has  none  to  reconcile  him  to  liimself  by  praise  and  vene- 
ration. I  have  long'  soug-ht  content,  and  have  not  found  it; 
I  will  from  this  moment  endeavour  to  be  rich." 

6  Full  of  his  new  resolution,  he  slmt  himself  in  his  cham- 
ber for  six  months,  to  deliberate  how  lie  should  grow  rich, 
'-le  sometimes  purposed  to  offer  liimself  as  a  counseiler  to  one 
of  the  kings  in  India;  and  at  others  resolved  to  dig  for  dia- 
monds in  the  mines  of  Golconda. 

7  One  day,  after  some  hours  passed  in  violent  fluctuation 
of  opinion,  sleep  insensibly  seized  him  in  his  chair.  He 
dreamed  that  he  was  ranging  a  desert  country,  in  search  of 
some  one  that  might  teach  him  to  grow  rich  ;  and,  as  he  stood 
on  t!ic  top  of  a  hill,  shaded  with  cypress,  in  doubt  whither 
to  direct  his  steps,  his  father  appeared  on  a  sudden  standing 
before  him.  "Ortogrul,'"  said  the  old  man,"  1  know  thy 
perplexity  ;  listen  to  thy  father;  turn  thine  eye  on  the  oppo- 
site mountain." 

8  Ortogrul  looked,  and  saw  a  torrent  tumbling  down  the 
rocks,  roaring  with  the  noise  of  thunder,  and  scattering  its 
foam  on  the  impending  woods.  "  Now,"  said  his  father, 
"  behold  the  valley  that  lies  between  the  hills."  Ortogrul 
looked,  and  espied  a  litlle  well,  out  of  which  issued  a  small 
rivulet.  "  Tell  me,  now,"  said  his  father,  "  dost  thou  wish 
for  sudden  affluence,  that  may  pour  upon  thee  like  the  moun- 
lain  torrent;  or  for  a  slow  and  gradual  increase,  resembling 
the  rill  gliding  from  tlie  well  ?" 

9  "  Let  me  be  quickhj  rich,"  said  Ortog-rul ;  "let  the  gol- 
den stream  be  quick  and  violent."  "  Look  round  thee,"  said 
his  father,  "once  again."  Ortugrul  looked,  and  perceived 
the  channel  of  the  torrent  dry  and  dusty;  but  following   the 


40  The  English  Reader.  Fart 

nviilet  from  the  well,  he  traced  it  to  a  wide  lake,  which  the 
supply,  .slow  and  constant,  kept  always  full.  He  awoke, 
and  dt'terinined  to  grow  rich  by  silent  profit,  and  persever- 
ing industry. 

10  Having  sold  his  patrimony,  he  engaged  in  merchan- 
dise; and  in  twenty  years,  purchased  lands,  on  which  he 
raised  a  house,  equal  in  sumptuousncss  to  that  of  the  vizer; 
to  this  mansion  he  invited  all  the  ministers  of  pleasure,  ex- 
pecting to  enjoy  all  the  felicity  whichhehad  imagined  riches 
able  to  alibrd.  Leisure  soon  made  him  weaiy  of  himself, 
and  he  longed  to  be  persuaded  tliat  he  was  great  aiid  hap- 
py. He  was  courteous  and  liberal:  he  gave  all  that  ap- 
proached him,  hopes  of  y>/(Y/.vi'V)if  him,  and  all  who  should 
please  him,  hopes  of  being  rewarded.  Every  art  of  praise, 
was  tried,  and  every  source  of  adulatory  fiction,  was  ex- 
hausted. 

11  Ortogrul  heard  his  flatterers  without  delight,  because 
he  found  himself  unable  to  believe  them.  His  own  heart 
told  him  its  frailties ;  his  own  understanding,  reproached 
hiin  with  his  faults.  "How  long,"  said  he,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "have  I  been  labouring  in  vain  to  amass  wealth,  which 
at  last  is  useless  !  Let  no  man  hereafter  wish  to  be  rich,  who 
is  already  too  wise  to  be  flattered."  dr.  .toh>son. 

SECTION  VL 

Tlie  Hill  of  Science. 
In  that  season  of  the  year,  when  the  serenity  of  the  sKj', 
the  various  fniits  which  cover  the  ground,  the  discoloured 
foliage  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  sweet,  but  fading  graces  of 
mspiring  autumn,  open  the  mind  to  benevolence,  and  dis- 
pose it  for  contemplation,  I  was  wandering  in  a  beautiful  and 
romanticcountry,  (ill  curiosity  began  to  give  way  to  weari- 
ness I  and  I  sat  down  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock  overgrown 
with  moss  ;  where  the  rustling  of  the  failing  leaves, the  dash- 
mg  of  waters,  and  the  hum  of  the  distant  city,  soothed  my 
mind  into  a  most  perfect  tranquillity;  and  sleep  insensibly 
stole  upon  me,  as  I  was  indulging  the  agreeable  reveries, 
which  the  objects  around  me  naturally  inspired. 

2  I  immediately  found  myself  in  a  vast  extended  jdain,  in 
the  middle  of  which  arose  a  mountain,  higher  than  I  had  be- 
fore any  conception  of.  It  was  cf>vered  with  a  multitude  of 
people,  chiefly  youth,  many  of  whom  pressed  foward  with 
the  liveliest  expression  of  ardour  in  their  countenance,  though 
the  wav  was,  in  many  places,  steep  and  difficult. 

3  I  observed,  that  those,  ■'vlio  had  just  begun  to  climb  the 
bill,  thought  themselves  no'   'ar  trom  the  top ;  but  as  tliey 


Chap.  2.  JVarraiive  Pieces.  41 

proceeded,  new  hills  were  continiiall}'  rising'  to  their  view , 
and  the  summit  of  the  highest  they  could  before  discern, 
seemed  but  the  foot  of  another,  till  the  mountain  at  length 
appeared  to  lose  itself  in  the  clouds. 

4  As  I  was  gazing'  on  these  things  with  astonishment,  a 
friendly  instructer  suddenly  appeared :  "  Tlie  mountain  be- 
fore thee,"  said  he,  "  is  the  Hill  of  Science.  On  the  top,  is 
the  temple  of  Truth,  whose  head  is  above  the  clouds,  and  a 
veil  of  pure  light  covers  her  face.  Observe  the  progress  of 
her  votaries  :  be  silent  and  attentive." 

5  After  I  had  noticed  a  variety  of  objects,  I  turned  my 
ej'e  to^vards  the  multitudes  who  were  climbing  the  steep  as- 
cent, and  observed  amongst  them  a  youth  of  a  lively  look,  a 
piercing  eye,  and  something  fiery  and  irregular  in  all  his  mo- 
tions. His  name  was  Genius.  He  darted  Kke  an  eagle  up 
the  mountain,  and  left  his  companions  gazing  after  him  with 
envy  and  admiration ;  but  his  progress  was  unequal,  and 
interrupted  by  {thousand  caprices. 

6  When  Pleasure  warbled  in  the  valley,  he  mingled  in 
her  tram.  When  Pride  beckoned  towards  the  precipice,  he 
ventured  to  the  tottering  edge.  He  delighted  in  devious 
and  untried  paths,  and  made  so  many  excursions  from  the 
road,  that  his  feebler  companions  often  outstripped  him.  I 
observed  that  the  Muses  beheld  him  with  partiality ;  but 
Truth,  often  frowned,  and  turned  aside  her  face. 

7  Wliile  Geniuf;  was  thus  wasting  his  strength  in  eccentric 
flights,  I  saw  a  person  of  very  different  appearance,  named 
Application.  He  crept  along  with  a  slow  and  unremitting 
pace,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  patiently 
j'cmoving  every  stone  that  obstructed  his  way,  till  he  saw 
most  of  those  below  him,  who  had  at  first  derided  his  slow 
and  toilsome  progress. 

8  Indeed,  there  were  few  who  ascended  the  hill  with 
equal  and  uninterrupted  steadiness;  for  besides  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  way,  they  were  continually  solicited  to  turn 
aside,  by  a  numerous  crowd  of  Appetites,  Passions,  and 
Pleasures,  whose  importunity,  when  once  complied  with, 
they  became  less  and  less  able  to  resist:  and  though  they 
often  returned  to  the  path,  the  asperities  of  the  road  were 
more  severely  felt :  the  hill  appeared  more  steep  and  rug- 
ged ;  the  fruits,  which  were  wholesome  and  refreshing, 
seemed  harsh  and  ill  tasted ;  their  sight  grew  dim;  and  their 
feet  tript  at  every  little  obstruction. 

9  I  -aw,  v/illi  some  surprise,  that  the  Muses,  whose  busi- 
ness was  to  cheer  and  encourage  those  who  were  toiling  up 
tlie  ascent,  would  often  iing  in  the  bowers  of  Pleasure,  and 

D  2 


42  The  English  Reader.  Parti. 

accompany  those  who  were  enticed  away  at  the  call  of  the 
Passions.  They  accompanied  them,  however,  but  a  little 
way  ;  and  always  forsook  them  when  they  lost  sijht  of  the 
hill.  The  tyrants  tlien  doubled  their  chains  upon  tlie  unhap- 
py captives;  and  led  them  away,  without  resistance,  to  the 
cells  of  Ig-norance,  or  the  mansions  of  Misery. 

10  Among'st  the  innumerable  seducers,  who  were  cndea- 
vourinij  to  draw  away  the  votaries  of  Truth  from  the  path  of 
science  there  was  o?ie,  so  little  formidable  in  her  appearance, 
and  so  <^entle  and  languid  in  her  attempts,  that  1  siiouid 
scarcely  have  taken  notice  of  her,  but  for  the  numbers  she 
had  imperceptibly  loaded  with  her  chains. 

11  Indolence,  (for  so  she  was  called,)  far  from  proceeding 
to  open  hostilities,  did  not  attempt  to  turn  their  feet  out  of 
the  path,  but  contented  herself  with  retarding-  their  pro- 
g-ress ;  and  the  purpose  she  could  not  force  them  to  aban- 
don, she  persuaded  them  to  delay.  Her  touch  had  a  power 
like  that  of  the  torpedo,  which  withered  the  strength  of  those 
who  came  within  its  influence.  Her  unhappy  captives  still 
turned  their  faces  towards  the  temple,  and  always  hoped  to 
arrive  there ;  but  the  ground  seemed  to  slide  from  beneath 
their  feet,  and  they  found  themselves  at  the  bottom,  before 
they  suspected  they  had  changed  their  place. 

12  The  placid  serenity,  which  at  first  appeared  in  their 
countenance,  changed  bj'  degrees  into  a  melancholy  lan- 
gour,  which  was  tinged  with  deeper  and  deeper  gloom,  as 
they  glided  down  the  stream  af  Insignificance,  a  dark  and 
sluggish  water,  which  is  curled  by  no  breeze,  and  enlivened 
bj"  no  murmur,  till  it  falls  into  a  dead  sea,  where  startled 
passengers  are  awakened  by  the  shock,  and  tlie  next  mo- 
inent  buried  in  the  gulf  of  Oblivion. 

13  Of  all  the  unhappy  deserters  from  the  paths  of  Science, 
none  seemed  less  able  to  return  than  the  folloivers  of  Indo- 
lence. The  captives  of  Appetite  and  Passion  would  often 
seize  the  moment  when  their  tyrants  were  langui<i  or  asleep, 
to  escape  from  their  enchantment;  but  the  dommion  of  In 
dolence,  was  constant  and  unremitted ;  and  seldom  resisted, 
till  resistance  was  in  vain. 

14  After  contemplating  Ihese  things,  T  turned  my  eyes  to- 
wards the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  the  air  was  always 
pure  and  exhilarating,  tlie  path  shaded  with  laurels  and  ev- 
ergreens, and  the  effulgence  which  beamed  from  the  face  ol 
Science,  seemed  to  shed  a  gloiy  round  her  votaries.  Hap- 
py, said  I.  arc  they  who  are  permitted  to  ascend  tlie  moun- 
tain I  But  while  I  was   pronouncing  this  exclamation  with 


Chap.  2.  JSi''arrative  Pieces  43 

uncommon  ardour,  I  saw,  standings  beside  me,  a  form  of  di- 
viner features,  and  a  more  benigi)  radiance. 

15  '*  Happier,"  said  she,  "  are  tliey  whom  virtue  conducts 
to  the  Mansions  of  Content."  "What,"  said  I,  "  does  Vir- 
tue then  reside  in  the  vaZe .?"  "I  am  found,"  said  she,  "  in  the 
vale,  and  I  illuminate  the  mountain.  I  cheer  the  cottager 
at  his  toil,  and  inspire  the  sag-e  at  his  meditation.  I  mingle 
in  the  crowd  of  cities,  and  bless  the  hermit  in  his  cell.  I 
have  a  temple  in  every  heart  that  owns  my  influence,  and 
to  him  that  wishes  for  me,  I  am  already  present.  Science 
may  raise  thee  to  eminence ;  but  I  alone  can  guide  thee  to 
felicity  1" 

16  While  Virtue  was  thus  speaking,  I  stretched  out  my 
arms  towards  her,  with  a  vehemence  which  broke  my  slum- 
ber The  chill  dews  were  falling  around  me,  and  the  shades 
ol  evening  stretched  over  the  landscape.  I  hastened  home- 
ward, and  resigned  the  night  to  silence  and  meditation. 

AlKENr 

SECTION  VII. 

The  journey  of  a  day  ;  a  picture  of  human  life. 
OBIDAH,  the  son  of  Abensina,  left  tlie  caravansary  ear- 
ly in  the  morning,  and  pursued  his  journey  through  the 
plains  of  Indostan.  He  was  fresh  and  vigorous  with 
rest ;  he  was  animated  with  hope ;  he  was  incited  by  desire ; 
he  walked  swiftly  forward,  over  the  vallies,  and  saw  the  hills 
gradually  rising  before  him. 

2  As  he  passed  along,  his  ears  were  delighted  with  the 
morning  song  of  the  bird  of  paradise  ;  he  was  fanned  by  the 
last  flutters  of  the  sinking  breeze,  and  sprinkled  with  dew 
from  groves  of  spices.  He  sometimes  contemplated  the 
towering  height  of  the  oak,  monarch  of  the  hills;  and  some- 
times caught  the  gentle  fragrance  of  the  primrose,  eldest 
daugiiter  of  tlie  spring :  all  his  senses  were  gratified,  and 
all  care  was  banished  from  his  heart. 

3  Thus  he  went  on,  till  the  sun  approached  his  meridian, 
and  the  increased  heat  preyed  upon  his  strength  ;  he  then 
looked  around  about  him  for  some  more  commodious  path. 
He  saw,  on  his  right  hand,  a  grove  that  seemed  to  wave  its 
shades  as  a  sign  of  invitation  ;  he  entered  it,  and  found  the 
coolness  and  verdure  irresistibly  pleasant. 

4  He  did  not,  however,  forget  whilher  he  was  travelling 
but  found  a  narrow  way,  bordered  with  flowers,  which  aj)- 
•leared  to  have  the  same  direction  witli  the  main  road ;  and 
was  pleased,  that,  by  this  happy  experiment,  he  had  found 
means  to  unite  pleasure  with  business,  and  to  gain  the  re- 
wards of  diligence^  without  suffering  its  fatigues. 


44  The  English  Reader.  Pari  1 

5  He.  therefore,  still  continued  to  walk  for  a  time,  with- 
out the  least  remission  of  liis  ardour,  except  that  he  was 
sornetimos  tempted  to  stop  by  the  music  of  tiie  birds,  wljich 
the  heat  had  assembled  in  the  shade  ;  and  sometimes  amus- 
ed himself  vvilh  plucking-  the  flowers  that  covered  the  banks 
on  each  side,  or  the  fruils  that  hung-  upon  the  branches. 

6  At  last,  the  green  path  began  to  decline  from  its  first 
tendency,  and  to  wind  among  hills  and  thickets,  cooled  v/itli 
fountains,  and  murmuring-  with  waterfalls.  Here  0})i(ia!i 
paused  for  a  time,  and  began  to  consider  whether  it  were 
longer  safe  to  forsake  the  known  and  common  track  ;  but 
remembering  that  the  heat  was  now  m  its  greatest  violence, 
and  that  the  plain  was  dusty  and  uneven,  he  resolved  to  pur- 
sue the  new  path,  whicli  he  supposed  only  to  make  a  few  me- 
anders, in  compliance  with  the  varieties  of  the  ground,  and 
to  end  at  last  in  tiie  common  road. 

7  Having  llius  calmed  his  solicitude,  he  renewed  his  pace, 
though  he  suspected  that  he  was  not  gaining  ground.  This 
uneasiness  of  his  mind,  inclined  him  to  lay  hold  on  every 
new  object,  and  give  way  to  every  sensation  tliE.t  mig-ht  sooth 
or  divert  him.  He  listened  to  every  echo;  he  mounted  every 
hill  for  a  fresh  prospect ;  he  turned  aside  to  every  cascade  ; 
and  pleased  himself  with  tracing  the  course  of  a  gentle  riv- 
er that  rolled  among  the  trees,  and  watered  a  larg-e  regiop 
with  innumei"able  circumvolutions. 

8  In  these  amusements,  the  hours  passed  away  unaccount- 
ed ;  his  deviations  had  perplexed  his  memory,  and  he  knew 
not  towards  what  point  to  travel.  He  stood  pensive  ajid 
confused,  afraid  to  go  forward,  lest  he  should  go  wrcuig,  yet 
conscious  that  the  time  of  loitering  was  now  past.  ^Vhile  he 
was  thus  tortured  with  uncertainty,  the  sky  was  overspread 
with  clouds  ;  the  day  vanished  tVoin  before  him ;  and  a  sud- 
den tempest  gathered  round  his  head. 

9  He  was  now  roused  by  his  danger,  to  a  quick  and  pain- 
ful remembrance  of  his  folly;  he  now  saw  how  hfipjriness  is 
lost,  when  ease  is  consulted;  he  lamented  the  unmanly  im- 
patience that  prompted  him  t6  seek  shelter  in  the  grove;  and 
despised  the  petty  curiosity  that  led  him  on  from  trifie  to  tri- 
fle. While  lie  was  thus  reflecting,  the  air  grew  blacker, 
and  a  clap  of  thunder  broke  his  meditation. 

10  He  now  resolved  to  do  what  yet  remained  in  his  pow- 
er, to  tread  back  the  ground  which  he  had  passed,  and  try 
to  find  some  issue  where  the  wood  might  open  into  the  plain. 
He  prostrated  himself  on  the  ground,  and  reccmmended 
his  lifa  to  the  Lord  of  Nature.  He  rose  with  fonfidence 
and  tranquillity,  and  pressed  on  with  resoluUcn.    The  beasts 


Chap.  2.  JVarrative  Pieces.  45 

of  the  desert  were  in  motion,  and  on  every  hand  were  heard 
the  minfj^led  howls  of  ra^e  and  fear,  and  ravage,  and  expira- 
tion. All  the  horrouis  of  darkness  and  solitude,  surrounded 
him  ;  the  winds  roared  in  the  woods,  and  the  torrents  tum- 
bled from  the  hills. 

1 1  Thus  forlorn  and  distressed,  he  wandered  through  the 
wild,  without  knowing  whither  he  was  going,  or  whether 
he  was  every  moment  drawing  nearer  to  safety,  or  to  de- 
struction. At  length,  not  fear,  but  labour,  began  to  over 
come  him  ;  his  breath  grew  short,  and  his  knees  trembled? 
atid  he  was  on  the  point  of  lying  down  in  resignation  to  his 
fate,  when  he  beheld,  throug-h  the  brambles,  the  glimmer  of 
a  taper. 

12  He  advanced  towards  the  light ;  and  finding  that  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  cottage  of  a  hermit,  he  called  humblj  at  the 
door  and  obtained  admission.  The  old  man  set  before  him 
such  provisions  as  he  had  collected  for  himself,  on  which 
Obidah  fed  with  eagerness  and  gratitude. 

13  When  the  repast  was  over,  "  Tell  me,"  said  the  her- 
mit, "  by  what  chance  thou  hast  been  brought  hither  ?  I  have 
been  now  twenty  years  an  inhabitant  of  the  wilderness,  in 
jvhich  I  never  saw  a  man  before."  Obidah  then  related 
the  occurrences  of  his  journey,  without  any  concealment  or 
palliation. 

14  "  Son,"  said  the  hermit,  "  let  the  errours  and  follies,  the 
dangers  and  escape  of  this  day,  sink  deep  into  thy  heart. 
Bemember,  my  son,  that  human  life  is  the  journey  of  a  day. 
We  rise  in  the  morning  of  youth,  full  of  vigour,  and  full  of 
expectation  ;  we  set  forward  with  spirit  and  hope,  with 
gaiety  and  with  diligence,  and  travel  on  a  while  in  the  di- 
rect road  of  piety,  towards  the  mansions  of  rest. 

15  In  a  short  time,  we  remit  our  fervour,  and  endeavour 
to  find  some  mitigation  of  our  duty,  and  some  more  easy 
means  of  obtaining  the  same  end.  We  then  relax  our  vi- 
gour, and  resolve  no  longer  to  be  terrified  with  crimes  at  a 
distance  ;  but  rely  upon  our  own  constancy,  and  venture  to 
approach  what  we  resolve  never  to  touch.  We  thus  enter 
the  bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in  the  shades  of  security. 

1 6  Here  the  heart  softens,  and  vigilance  subsides ;  we  are 
then  willing  to  inquire  whether  another  advance  cannot  be 
made  and  whether  we  may  not,  at  least,  turn  our  eyes  upon 
tlie  gardens  of  pleasure.  We  approach  them  with  scruple 
and  hesitation  ;  we  enter  them,  but  enter  timorous  and 
trembling  :  and  always  hope  to  pass  through  them  witliout 
losing  the  road  of  virtue,  which,  for  awhile,  v/e  keep  in  our 
sight,  and  to  which  we  purpose  to  return.      But  tcmptatioa 


46  The  English  Reader.  I'art  i 

succeeds  temptation,  and  one  compliance,  pre[)ares  us  tor 
another  ;  we  in  time  lose  tlie  happiness  of  innocence,  and 
solace  our  disquiet  with  sensual  gratifications. 

17  By  decrees,  we  let  fall  Uie  rfttnembrance  of  our  origin- 
al intention,  and  quit  the  only  adequate  object  of  rational  de- 
sire. We  entangle  ourselves  in  business,  immerge  oiir-elves 
in  luxury,  and  rove  through  the. labyrinths*of  inconstancy; 
till  the  darkness  of  old  age  begins  to  invade  us,  and  fiiscase 
and  anxiety,  obstruct  our  way.  We  then  look  back  upon 
our  lives  with  horror,  with  sorrow,  with  repentance  ;  and 
wish,  but  too  often  vainly  wish,  that  we  had  not  forsaken  the 
ways  of  virtue. 

18  Happy  are  they,  my  son,  who  shall  learn  from  thy  ex- 
ample, not  to  despair  ;  but  shall  remember,  that,  though  the 
day  is  past,  and  their  strength  is  wasted,  there  yet  remains 
one  effort  to  be  made:  that  reformation  is  never  hojieless, 
nor  sincere  endeavours  ever  unassisted  ;  that  t!ie  wanderer 
may  at  length  return,  after  all  his  errours ;  and  that  he  who 
implores  strength  and  courage  from  above,  shall  imd  danger 
and  difficulty  give  way  before  him.  Go  now,  my  son,  to  thy 
repose;  commit  thyself  to  the  care  of  Omnipotence  ;  and 
when  th*}  morning  calls  again  to  toil,  begin  anew  thy  jou»^ 
uey  and  thy  life."  dr.  johkson. 

CHAP.  m. 
DIDACTIC  PIECES. 
SECTION  I. 

T^c  importcmce  of  a  good  Education. 

1  CONSIDER  a  human  soul  without  education,  like  mar- 
ble in  the  quarry  :  which  shows  none  of  its  inherent  beau- 
ties, until  the  skill  of  the  polisher,  fetches  out  the  colours 
makes  the  surface  shine.and  discovers  every  ornamental  cloud, 
spot,  and  vein,  that  runs  through  the  body  of  it.  Education, 
after  the  same  manner,  when  it  works  upon  a  noble  mind, 
draws  out  to  view  every  latent  virtue  and  peifection,  which 
without  such  helps,  are  never  able  to  make  their  appearance. 

2  If  my  reader  will  give  me  leave  to  change  the  allusion 
eo  soon  upon  him,  I  shall  make  use  of  the  same  instance  to 
illustrate  the  forceof  education,  which  Aristotle  has  brought 
to  explain  his  doctrine  of  substantial  forms,  when  he  tells 
us  that  a  statue  lies  hid  in  a  block  of  marble  ;  and  that  the 
art  of  the  statuary  only  clears  away  the  superfluous  matter, 
and  removes  the  rubbish.  The  figure  is  in  the  stone,  and 
the  sculptor  only  finds  it. 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  47 

3  What  sculpture  is  to  a  block  of  marble,  education  is  to 
a  lunnau  soul.  Tlie  philosopher,  tJie  saint,  or  the  hero,  ihe 
wise,  the  g'ood,  or  the  great  man,  very  often  lies  hid  and 
concealed  in  a  plebeian,  which  a  proper  education  mig-ht 
have  disinterred,  and  broug-ht  to  lig'ht.  I  am  therefore  much 
delighted  with  reading-  the  accounts  of  savage  nations,  and 
with  contemplating  those  virtues  which  are  wild  and  uncul- 
tivated :  to  see  courage  exerting  itself  in  fierceness,  resolu- 
tion in  obstinacy,  wisdom  iu  cunning,  patience  in  suUenness 
and  despair. 

4  Men's  passions  operate  variously,  and  appear  in  differ- 
ent kinds  of  actions,  according  as  they  are  more  or  less  recti- 
fied and  swa3'ed  by  reason.  When  one  hears  of  negroes, 
wlio,  upon  the  death  of  their  masters,  or  upon  changing  their 
service,  hang  themselves  upon  the  next  tree,  as  it  sometimes 
happens  in  our  American  plantations,  wlio  can  forbear  ad- 
miring their  fidelity,  though  it  expresses  itself  in  so  dreadful 
a  manner ' 

5  What  might  not  that  savage  greatness  of  soul,  which 
appears  in  the^e  poor  wretches  on  many  occasions,  be  raised 
ro,  vfe.Tti  it  rigliily  cultivated  ?  And  what  colour  of  excuse 
can  there  be,  for  the  contempt  with  which  we  treat  this  part 
of  our  species,  that  we  should  not  put  them  upon  the  com- 
mon footing  of  humanity;  that  we  should  only  set  an  insig- 
nificant fine  upon  the  man  who  murders  them :  nay,  that 
we  should,  as  much  as  in  us  hes,  cut  them  off  from  the 
prospects  of  happiness  in  another  world,  as  well  as  in  tliis ; 
and  deny  them  *hat  which  we  look  upon  as  the  proper  means 
for  attaining  it  ? 

6  It  is  therefore  an  unspeakable  blessing,  to  be  born  in 
those  parts  of  the  world,  where  wisdom  and  knowledge 
flourish ;  thcugii  it  must  be  confessed,  there  are,  even  in 
these  parts,  several  poor  uninstructed  persons,  who  are  but 
little  above  the  inhabitants  of  those  nations,  of  which  I  have 
been  here  speaking ;  as  those  who  have  had  the  advantages 
of  a  more  liberal  education,  rise  above  one  another  by  seve- 
ral different  degrees  of  perfection. 

7  For,  to  return  to  our  statue  in  the  block  of  marble,  we 
see  it  sometimes  only  begun  to  be  chipped,  sometimes  rougli 
hewn,  and  but  just  sketched  into  a  human  figure ;  sometimes, 
we  see  the  man  appearing  distinctly  in  all  his  limbs  and  fea- 
tures ;  sometimes,  we  find  the  figure  wrought  up  to  crcnt 
elegancy ;  but  seldom  meet  with  any  to  which  the  hnnd  o\  a 
Phidias  or  a  Praxiteles,  couid  not  give  several  nice  touches 
and  fiiiiishings.  AnnisoN. 


48  The  English.  Reader.  Part  1. 

SECTION  II. 

On  Gratitude. 
THERE  is  not  a  more  pleasing  exercise  of  the  mind,  than 
gratitude.  It  is  accompanied  with  so  great  inward  talis- 
faction,  that  the  duty  is  sufficiently  rewarded  by  the  per- 
formance. It  is  not  like  tVie  practice  of  many  other  virtues, 
difficult  and  painful,  but  attended  with  so  much  pleasure,  that 
were  tliere  no  positive  command  which  enjoined  it,  nor  any 
recompense  laid  up  for  it  hereafter,  a  generous  mind  would 
indulge  in  it,  for  the  natural  grat'Jicalion  which  it  afibrds. 

2  If  gratitude  is  due  from  man  to  man,  how  much  more 
from  man  to  his  Maker :  The  Supreme  Being,  decs  not 
on!)'  confer  upon  us  those  bounties  which  proceed  more  im- 
mediately from  his  own  hand,  but  even  those  benefits  which 
are  conveyed  to  us  by  others.  Every  blessing  we  enjoy,  bv 
what  means  soever  it  may  be  conferred  upon  us,  is  the  gift 
of  Him  who  is  the  great  Author  of  good,  and  the  Father  of 
mercies. 

3  If  gratitude,  when  exerted  towards  one  another,  natu- 
rally pr' "duces  a  very  pleasing  sensation  in  the  mind  of  a 
grateful  man,  it  exalts  the  soul  into  rapture,  when  it  is  em- 
ployed on  this  great  object  of  gratitude;  on  this  beneficent  Be- 
ing, who  has  given  us  every  thing  we  already  possess,  and  fronj 
whom  we  expect  every  thing  we  yet  hope  for.         audison 

SECTION  III. 
On  Forgiveness. 
THE  most  plain  and  natural  sentiments  of  equity,  concur 
with  divine  authority,  to  enforce  the  duty  of  forgiveness. 
Let  him  who  has  never,  in  his  life,  done  wrong,  be  allowed 
the  privilege  of  remaining  inexorable.  But  let  such  as  are 
conscious  of  frailties  and  crimes,  consider  forgiveness  as  a 
debt  which  they  owe  to  others.  Common  failings,  are  the 
strongest  lesson  of  mutual  forbearance.  Were  this  virtue 
unknown  among  men,  order  and  comfort,  peace  and  repose, 
would  be  strangers  to  human  life. 

2  Injuries  rclaliated  according  to  the  exorbitant  measure 
whicti  passion  prescribes,  v/ould  excite  resentment  in  return. 
The  injured  person,  would  become  the  iniurcr;  and  thus 
wrongs,  retaliations,  and  fresh  injuries,  would  circulate  in 
endless  succession,  till  the  world  was  rendered  a  field  of  blood. 

3  Of  all  the  passions  which  invade  the  human  breast,  re- 
venge \s  the  most  direful.  When  allowed  to  reign  with  full 
dominion,  it  is  more  tlian  sufficient  to  poison  the  few  plea- 
sures which  remain  to  man  in  his  present  state.     How  mvch 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  49 

soever  a  person  may  suffer  from  injustice,  he  is  always  in 
liazarJ  of  suffering  more  from  the  prosecution  of  revenge. 
The  violence  of  an  enemy  cannot  inflict  what  is  equal  to  tlie 
torment  he  creates  to  himself,  by  means  of  the  fierce  and 
desperate  passions,  which  he  allows  to  rage  in  his  soul. 

4  Those  evil  spirits  that  inhabit  the  regions  of  misery,  are 
represented  as  delighting  in  revenge  and  cruelty.  But  all 
that  is  great  and  good  in  the  universe,  is  on  the  side  of  clem- 
ency and  mercy.  The  almighty  Ruler  of  the  world,  tliough 
for  ages  offended  by  the  unrighteousness,  and  insulted  by  the 
ijnpietv  of  men,  is  "  long-suffering  and  slow  to  anger." 

5  liis  Son,  when  he  appeared  in  our  nature,  exhibited, 
both  in  his  life  and  in  his  death,  the  most  illustrious  example 
of  forgiveness  which  the  world  ever  beheld.  If  we  look  into 
the  history  of  mankind,  we  shall  find  that,  in  every  age,  they, 
%vho  have  been  respected  as  worthy,  or  admired  as  great, 
have  been  distinguished  for  this  virtue. 

6  Revenge  dwells  in  little  minds.  A  noble  and  magnan- 
imous spirit,  is  always  superiour  to  it.  It  suffers  not, 
from  the  injuries  of  men,  those  severe  shocks  which  others 
feel.  Collected  within  itself,  it  stands  unmoved  by  their  im- 
potent shocks  ;  and  with  generous  pity,  rather  than  with 
anger,  locks  down  on  their  unworthy  conduct.  It  has  been 
truh"  said,  that  the  greatest  man  on  earth,  can  no  sooner 
coiniiid  an  injury,  than  a.  good  man,  can  make  himelf^rca<- 
er,  bj'  forgiving  it.  blair. 

SECTION  IV. 
Motives  to  the  practice  of  gentleness. 

TO  promote  the  virtue  of  gentleness,  we  ought  to  view 
our  character  with  an  impartial  eye  ;  and  to  learn,  from  our 
own  failings,  to  give  that  indulgence  which  in  our  turn  we 
claim.  It  h  pride  which  fills  the  world  with  so  much  harsh- 
ness and  severity.  In  the  fulness  of  self-estimation,  we  for- 
get what  we  are.  We  claim  attentions  to  which  we  are  not 
entitled.  We  are  rigorous  to  offences,  as  if  we  had  never 
offended  ;  unfeeling  to  distress,  as  if  we  knew  not  what  it 
was  to  suffer.  From  those  airy  regions  of  pride  and  folly, 
let  us  descend  to  our  proper  level. 

•i  Let  us  survey  the  natural  equality  on  which  Prom- 
dence  has  placed  man  with  man,  and  reflect  on  the  infirmi- 
ties common  to  all.  If  the  reflection  on  natural  equality 
and  mutual  offences,  be  insufficient  to  prompt  humanity,  let 
us  at  least  remember,  what  we  are  in  the  sight  of  our  Crea- 
tor. Have  we  none  of  the":  forbearance  to  give  one  another, 
which  we  all  so  earnestly  entreat  from  Heaven  ?  Cau  we 


50  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

look  for  clemency  or  gentleness  from  our  Judge,  wlien  we 
are  so  backward  to  show  it  to  our  own  brethren  .' 

3  Let  us  also  accustom  ourselves  to  reflect  on  the  small 
moment  of  those  things,  which  are  the  usual  incentives  to 
violence  and  contention.  In  the  ruffled  and  angrj"  liour,  we 
view  every  appearance  tlirough  a  false  medium.  The  most 
inconsiderable  point  of  interest,  or  honour  swells  into  a  mo- 
mentous object ;  and  the  slightest  attack,  seems  to  ilireaten 
immediate  ruin. 

4  But  after  passion  or  pride,  has  subsided,  we  look  around 
in  vain  for  the  mighty  mischiefs  we  dreaded.  The  fabric, 
which  our  disturbed  imagination  had  reared,  totally  disap- 
pears. But  though  the  cause  of  contention  has  dwindled 
awaj"^,  its  conseqences  remain.  We  have  alienated  a  friend, 
we  have  embittered  an  enemy,  we  have  sown  the  seeds  of 
future  suspicion,  malevolence,  or  disgust. 

5  Let  us  suspend  our  violence  for  a  moment  when  cau- 
ses of  discord  occur.  Let  us  anticipate  that  period  of  cool- 
ness, wiiich,  of  itself,  will  soon  arrive.  Let  us  reflect  how 
little  we  have  any  prospect  of  gaining  by  fierce  contention, 
out  how  mucit  of  the  true  happiness  of  life,  we  are  certain  of 
throwing  awa^^  Easily,  and  from  the  smallest  chink,  the 
bitter  waters  of  strife  are  let  forth  ;  but  tl>eir  course  cannot 
be  foreseen  ;  and  he  seldom  fails  of  suffering  most  from 
their  poisonous  effect,  who  first  allows  them  to  flow,     blair. 

SECTION  V. 

A  suspicious  temper  the  source  of  misery  to  its  possessor. 

AS  a  suspicious  spirit,  is  the  source  of  many  crimes  and 
calamities  in  the  world,  so  it  is  the  spring  of  certain  misery 
to  the  person  who  indulges  it.  His  friends  will  be  few,  anS 
small  will  be  his  comfort  in  those  whom  he  possesses.  Be- 
lieving others  to  be  his  enemies,  he  will  of  course  make  them 
such.  Let  his  caution  be  ever  so  great,  the  asperity  of  his 
thoughts  will  often  break  out  in  his  behaviour,  and  in  return 
for  suspecting  and  hating,  be  will  incur  suspicion  and  hatred. 

2  Besides  the  external  evils  which  he  draws  upon  himself, 
arising  from  alienated  friendship,  broken  confidence,  and 
open  enmity,  the  suspicious  temper  itself  is  one  of  the  worst 
evils  which  any  man  can  suffer.  If  "  in  all  fear  there  is  tor- 
ment," how  miserable  must  be  his  state,  who,  by  living  in 
purpetual^frt'ofw/,  lives  in  perpetual  dread  ! 

3  Looking  upon  himself  to  be  surrounded  with  spies,  en- 
emies, and  designing  men,  he  is  a  stranger  to  reliance  and 
trust.   He  knows  not  to  whom  to  open  himself.    He  dresses 


Chap  3.  Didactic  Piece*.  51 

his  countenance  in  forced  smiles,  while  his  heart  throbs 
within  from  apprehensions  of  secret  treachery.  Hence  fret- 
fulness,  and  ill  humour,  disgust  at  the  world,  and  all  the 
painful  sensations  of  an  irritated  and  embittered  mind. 

4  So  numerous  and  great  are  the  evils  arising  trom  a  sus- 
picious disposition,  that,  of  the  two  extremes,  it  is  more  eli- 
gible to  expose  ourselves  to  occasional  disadvantage  from 
thinking  too  well  of  others,  than  to  suffer  continual  misery  by 
thinking  always  ill  of  them.  It  is  better  to  be  sometimes 
imposed  upon  than  never  to  trust.  Safet}'  is  purchased  at 
too  dear  a  rate,  when,  in  order  to  secure  it,  we  are  obliged 
to  be  always  clad  in  armour,  and  to  live  in  perpetual  bosiili- 
ty  with  our  fellows. 

5  This  is,  for  the  sake  of  living,  to  deprive  ourselves  of  the 
comfort  of  life.  The  man  of  cawdoitr,  enjoys  his  situation, 
whatever  it  is,  with  cheerfulness  and  peace.  Prudence  di- 
rects his  intercourse  with  the  world,  and  no  black  suspicions 
haunt  his  hours  of  rest.  Accustomed  to  view  the  cliaracters 
of  his  neighbours  in  the  most  favourable  light,  he  is  like  one 
who  dwells  amidst  those  beautiful  scenes  of  nature,  on  which 
ihe  eye  rests  with  pleasure. 

6  Whereas  the  suspicious  man,  having  his  imagination  fill- 
ed with  all  the  shocking  forms  of  human  falsehood,  deceit, 
and  treachery,  resembles  the  traveller  in  the  wilderness,  who 
discerns  no  objects  around  him  but  such  as  are  either  dreary 
or  terrible ;  caverns  that  yawn,  serpents  that  hiss,  and  beasts 
of  prey  that  howl.  blair. 

SECTION  VI. 
Comforts  of  Religion. 
THERE  are  many  who  have  passed  the  age  of  youth  and 
beauty  ;  who  have  resigned  the  pleasures  of  that  smiling 
season  ;  who  begin  to  dechne  into  the  vale  of  yearr,  impaired 
in  their  health,  depressed  in  their  fortunes,  stript  of  their 
friends,  their  children,  and  perhaps  still  more  tender  con- 
nexions. What  resource  can  <A?*  world  afford  them?  It 
presents  a  dark  and  dreary  waste,  through  which  there  does 
not  issue  a  single  ra)'  of  comfort. 

2  Every  delusive  prospect  ofambitionisnow  at  an  end;  long 
experience  of  mankind,  an  experience  very  dill'erent  from 
what  the  open  and  generous  soul  of  youth  had  fondly  dreamt 
of,  has  rendered  the  heart  almost  inaccessible  to  new  friend- 
ships. The  principal  sources  of  activity,  are  taken  away, 
when  those  for  whom  we  labour,  are  cut  off  from  us  ;  those 
who  animated,  and  ivho  sweetened,  all  the  toils  of  life. 

3  Where  tlien  can  tlie  soul  find  refuge,  but  in  the  bosom  of 


52  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

Relig'ion  ?  Therenhe  is  admitted  to  those  prospects  of  Prov- 
idence and  futurity,  which  alone  can  varin  and  fill  the  heart. 
I  speak  here  of  such  as  retain  the  feelings  of  liurnanily  ; 
whom  misfortunes  have  softened,  and  perhafis  rendered  more 
delicately  sensible;  not  of  such  as  possess  that  stupid  insen- 
sibility, which  some  are  pleased  to  dignify  with  the  name  of 
Philosophy. 

4  It  might  therefore  be  expected,  that  those  philosophers, 
who  think  they  stand  in  no  r.zei.  themselves  of  the  assistance 
of  religion  to  support  their  virtues,  and  who  never  feel  the 
loant  of  its  consolations,  would  yet  have  the  humanity  to 
consider  the  very  different  situation  of  the  re.v<  of  mankind; 
and  not  endeavour  to  deprive  i/jem  of  what  habit,  at  lead,  if 
they  will  not  allow  it  to  be  nature,  has  made  necessarj'  to 
their  morals  and  to  their  happiness. 

5  It  might  be  expected,  that  humanity  would  prevent 
them  from  breaking  into  the  last  retreat  of  the  uuforlunate, 
who  can  no  longer  be  objects  of  their  envy  or  resentment, 
and  tearing  from  them  their  only  remaining  comfort.  The 
attempt  to  ridicule  religion  may  be  agreeable  to  some,  by 
relieving  them  from  restraint  upon  their  pleasure? ,  and  may 
render  others  very  miserable,  by  making  them  doubt  those 
truths,  in  which  they  were  most  deeply  interested  ;  but  it 
can  convey  real  good  and  happiness  to  no  one  individual. 

GREGORy. 

SECTION  VII. 

Diffidence  of  our  abilities,  a  mark  of  wisdom. 
IT  is  a  sure  mdication  of  good  sense,  to  be  diffident  of  it. 
We  then,  and  not  till  then,  are  growing  wise,  when  we  be- 
gin to  discern  how  weak  and  unwise  we  are.  An  absolute 
perfection  of  understanding,  is  impossible  :  he  makes  the 
nearest  approach  to  it,  who  has  the  sense  to  discern,  and  the 
humility  to  acknowledge,  its  imperfections. 

2  Modesty  alwa}'s  sits  gracefully  upon  youth  ;  it  covers  a 
rrultitude  of  faults,  and  doubles  the  lustre  of  every  virtue 
which  it  seems  to  hide  :  the  perfections  of  men  being  like 
those  flowers  which  appear  more  beautiful,  when  their  leaves 
are  a  little  contracted  and  folded  up,  than  when  thej'  are  full 
blown,  and  display  themselves,  without  any  reserve,  to  the 
view. 

3  We  are  some  of  us  very  fond  of  knowledge,  and  apt  to 
value  ourselves  upon  anv  proficiency  in  the  sciences  ;  one 
'cience,  however,  there  is,  worth  more  than  all  the  rest ;  and 
^hatis,  the  science  of  living  well ;  This  shall  remain,  when 
"  tongues  shall  cease,"  and  "  knowledge  shall  vanish  away."* 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  53 

4  As  to  new  notions,  and  ne^v  doctrines,  of  wnich  this  ag-e 
is  very  fruitful,  the  time  will  come  when  we  shall  liave  no 
pleasure  in  them  :  nay,  the  time  shall  come,  when  they  shall 
be  exploded,  and  would  have  hcan  forgoUen,  if  they  had  not 
been  preserved  in  tliose  excellent  hooks,  v,  iiich  contain  a 
confutation  of  them;  like  insects  preserved  lor  ag-es  in  am- 
ber, which  otherM'ise  would  soon  have  returned  to  the  com- 
mon mass  of  thing-s. 

5  But  a  firm  behef  of  Christianity,  and  a  practice  suita- 
ble to  it,  will  support  and  invigorate  the  mind  to  the  last ;  and 
most  of  all,  at  last  at  that  important  hour,  which  must  decide 
our  hopes  and  apprehensions  :  and  tlie  wisdom,  which,  like 
our  Saviour,  cometh  from  above,  will,  through  his  merits, 
bring  us  thither.  All  our  o//ier  studies  and  pursuits,  howev- 
er different,  ought  to  be  subservient  to,  and  center  m,  this 
grand  point,  the  pursuit  of  eternal  happmess,  by  being  g-ood 
in  ourselves,  and  useful  to  the  world.  sekd. 

SECTION  VIII. 
On  the  importance  of  order  in  the  distribution  of  our  time. 
TIME,  we  ought  to  consider  as  a  sacred  trust,  committed 
to  us  by  God,  of  which  we  are  now  the  depositaries,  and 
are  to  render  an  account  at  tlielast.  That  porlion  of  it  which 
he  has  allotted  to  us,  is  intended  partly  for  the  concerns  of 
this  world,  partly  for  those  of  the  next.  Let  each  of  these 
occupv,  in  the  distribution  of  our  time,  that  space  which 
properly  belongs  to  it. 

2  Let  not  the  hours  of  hospitality  and  pleasure,  interfere 
with  the  discharge  of  our  necessary  affairs  ;  and  let  n(.it  what 
we  call  necessari/  iiffairs,  encroach  upon  the  time  which  is 
due  to  devotion.  To  even/  thing  tliere  is  a  season,  and  a 
time  for  every  purpose  under  the  lieaven.  If  we  delay  till 
to-morrow  what  ought  to  be  done  to-day,  we  overchaige  the 
morrow  with  a  burden  which  belongs  not  to  it.  We  load 
the  wheels  of  time,  and  prevent  them  from  carrying  us  along 
smoothly. 

3  He  who  every  morning  plans  the  transactions  of  the  day, 
and  follows  out  that  plan,  carries  on  a  thread  which  will 
guide  him  through  the  labyrinth  of  the  most  busv  life.  The 
orderlv  arrangement  of  his  time,  is  like  a  ray  of  lighf,  which 
darts  itself  through  all  his  affaii's.  But,  where  no  plan  is 
laid,  where  the  disposal  of  time  is  surrendered  merely  to  the 
chance  of  incidents,  all  things  lie  huddled  together  in  one 
chaos  which  admits  neither  of  distribution  nor  review. 

4  The  first  requisite  for  inti-oduciiig-  order  into  the  man 
agement  of  time,  is  to  be  impressed  with  a  just  sense  of  its 

E2 


64  TJie  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

value.  Let  us  consider  well  how  much  depends  upon  it,  and 
hovr  fast  it  flies  away.  The  bulk  of  men  are  in  notiiingmore 
capricious  and  inconsistent,  than  in  their  appreciation  of 
time.  When  they  think  of  it,  as  the  measure  of  their  con- 
tinuance on  eartli,  they  higlily  prize  it,  and  with  the  great- 
est anxiety  seek  to  leng'then  it  out. 

5  But  when  they  view  it  in  separate  parcels,  they  appear 
to  hold  it  in  contempt,  and  squander  it  witli  inconsiderate 
profusion.  While  they  complain  that  life  is  short  they  are 
often  wishinff  its  ditferent  periods  at  an  end.  Covetous  of 
every  otker  possession,  of  time  only  they  are  prodigal.  They 
allow  every  idle  man  to  be  master  of  their  property,  and 
make  every  frivolous  occupation  welcome  that  can  help 
them  to  consume  it. 

6  ii.nonp^  tliose  who  are  so  careless  of  time,  it  is  not  to  be 
expected  that  order  should  be  observed  in  its  distribution. 
But  by  this  fatal  neg'lect,  how  many  materials  of  severe  and 
lasting-  i-eg-ret,  are  they  laying-  up  in  store  for  themselves  I 
The  time  wliich  they  suffer  to  pass  away  in  the  mid  =  t  of  con- 
fusion, bitter  repentance  seeks  afterwards  in  vain  to  recall. 
What  was  omitted  to  be  done  at  iti  proper  moment,  arises  to 
be  the  torment  of  some  future  season. 

7  Manhood  is  disgraced  by  the  consequences  of  neglect- 
ed youth.  Old  age,  oppressed  with  cares  that  belonged  to  a 
former  period,  labours  under  a  burden  not  hiso^n.  At  the 
close  of  life,  the  dying  man  beholds  with  anguish  that  his 
days  are  finishing,  uiien  his  preparation  for  eternity  is  hard- 
ly commenced.  Such  are  the  effects  of  a  disorderly  waste 
of  time,  through  not  attending  to  its  value.  Every  tiling  in 
the  life  of  smli  persons,  is  misplaced.  Nothing  is  performed 
aright,  from  not  being  performed  in  due  season. 

8  But  he  who  is  orderly  in  the  distribution  of  his  time, 
takes  the  pi-oper  metliod  of  escaping  those  manifold  evils. 
He  is  justly  said  to  redeem  the  time.  By  proper  manage 
ment,  he  prolongs  it.  He  lives  mv-ih  in  little  space :  more 
in  Tifeic  years,  than  others  do  in  many.  He  can  live  to  God 
and  his  own  soul,  and,  at  the  same  time,  attend  to  all  the 
lawful  interests  of  the  present  world.  He  looks  back  on  the 
past,  and  provides  for  tlie  future. 

9  He  catches  and  arrests  the  hours  as.they  fly.  They 
are  marked  down  for  useful  purposes,  a.-id  their  memori,-  re- 
mains. Whereas  those  hours  fleet  by  the  man  of  confusion, 
like  a  shadow.  His  days  and  years,  are  either  blanks,  of 
which  he  has  no  remembrance,  or  the}'  are  filled  u])  with  so 
confused  and  irregular  a  succession  of  unfinished  transac- 
tions, tliat  though  he  remembers  he  has  been  busy,  yet  he 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  55 

caa  a;ive  no  account  of  the  business  which  has  employed 

him.  BI.AIR. 

SECTION  IX. 

The  dignity  of  virtue  amidst  corrupt  examples. 
THE  most  excellent  and  honourable  character  whi(5hcan 
adorn  a  man  and  a  Christian,  is  acquired  by  resisting  the 
torrent  of  vice,  and  adliering  to  the  cause  of  God  and  vir- 
tue ag-ainst  a  corrupted  multitude.  It  will  be  found  to  hold  in 
g-eueral,  that  they,  who,  in  any  of  the  great  lines  of  life, 
have  distinguished  themselves  for  thinking  profoundly,  and 
acting  nobly,  have  despised  popular  prejudice?,  and  depart- 
ed, in  several  things,  from  the  common  ways  of  the  world. 

2  Oa  no  occasion  is  this  more  requisite  for  true  honour, 
than  where  religion  and  morality,  are  concerned.  In  timea 
of  prevailing  licentiousness,  to  maintain  unblemished  virtue, 
and  uncorrupted  integrity,  in  a  public  or  a  private  cause,  to 
stand  tirm  by  what  is  fair  and  just,  amidst  discouragements 
and  opposition  ;  despising  groundless  censure  aud  reproach; 
disdaining  all  compliance  with  public  manners,  v/hen  they 
are  vicious  and  unlawful ;  and  never  ashamed  of  the  punc- 
tual discharge  of  every  duty  towards  God  and  man  ; — this  is 
ivliat  shows  true  greatness  offpirit,  and  will  force  approba- 
tion even  from  the  degenerate  multitude  themselves. 

3  "Tliis  is  tlie  man,"  (their  conscience  v.'ill  oblige  them  to 
acknowledge,)  "  whom  we  are  unable  to  bend  to  mean  con- 
descensions. We  see  it  in  vain  either  to  flatter  or  to  threat- 
en him  ;  he  rests  on  a  principle  within,  which  we  cannot 
shake.  To  this  man,  v/e  ma)',  on  any  occasion,  safely  com- 
mit our  cause.  He  is  incapable  of  betraying  his  trust,  or 
deserting  his  friend,  or  denying  his  faith." 

4  It  is,  accordingly,  this  steady,  inflexible  virtue,  this  re- 
gard to  principle,  superiour  to  all  custom  and  opinion, 
w!iich  peculiarly  marked  the  characters  of  those  in  any  age, 
who  ha^e  shone  with  distinguished  lustre  ;  and  has  conse- 
crated their  memory  to  all  posterity.  It  was  </i/y  that  ob- 
tained to  ancient  Enoch,  the  most  singular  testimony  of  hon- 
our from  heaven, 

5  He  continued  to  "  walk  with  God,"  when  the  world 
apostatized  from  him.  He  pleased  God,  and  was  beloved 
of  him  ;  so  that  living  among  sinners,  he  was  translated  to 
heaven  without  seeing  death  ;  "  Yea,  speedily  was  he 
taken  away,  lest  wickedness  sliould  have  altered  his  un- 
derstanding, or  deceit  beguiled  his  soul." 

6  ^Vhen  Sodom  could  not  furnish  ten  rigliteous  rnen  to 
save  it,  Lot  remained  unspotted  amidst  the  contagion.     He 


56  The  English  Reader.  Pari  1. 

lived  like  an  an^el  among-  spirits  of  darkness ;  and  the  de- 
stroying flame  was  not  permuted  to  go  forth,  till  the  good 
man  was  called  away,  by  a  heavenly  messenger,  from  his 
devoted  city. 

7  When  "  all  flesb  had  corrnpted  their  way  upon  the 
earth,"  then  lived  Noah,  a  righteous  man,  and  a  jireaciier 
of  rig-hteousness.  He  stood  alone  and  was  scuffed  b}-  Uie 
profane  crew.  But  they  by  the  deluge  were  swept  awav 
while  on  him.  Providence  conferred  the  immortal  honour, 
of  being  the  restorer  of  a  better  race,  and  the  faliier  of  a 
new  world.  Such  examples  as  these,  and  such  honours  con- 
ferred by  God  on  them  who  withstood  the  multitude  of  evil 
doers,  should  often  be  present  to  our  minds. 

8  Let  us  oppose  them  to  the  numbers  of  low  and  corrupt 
examples,  which  we  behold  around  us  :  and  wiien  we  are  in 
hazard  of  being  swayed  by  sucn,  let  us  fortify  our  virtue,  by 
thinking  of  those,  who,  in  former  times,  shone  like  stars  in 
the  midst  of  surrounding  darkness,  and  are  now  shining  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  as  the  brightness  of  tlie  firmament, 
forever  and  ever.  elair. 

SECTION  X. 
The  morlijications  of  vice  feeder  than  those  of  virtue. 
THOUGH  710  condition  of  human  life,  is  free  from  unea- 
siness, yet  it  must  be  allowed,  that  the  uneasiness  belong 
inj  to  a  sinful  course,  is  far  greater,  than   wliat  attends  u 
course  c>[we//-(lomg.     If  we  are  wear^'   of  the    labours  of 
virtue,  we   may  be  assured,  that  the    world,    whenever  we 
tr}'  tlie  exchang-e,  will  lay  upon  us  a  much  heaver  load. 

2  It  is  the  outside  only,  of  a  licentious  life,  which  is  g-ay 
and  smiling'.  Within,  it  conceals  toil,  and  troul''*',  and 
deadly  sorrow.  For  vice  poisons  hu  nan  happmcs^  in  the 
spring,  by  introducing  disorder  into  the  heart.  Those  pas- 
sions which  it  seems  to  indulge,  it  only  feeds  with  imnerfect 
gratifications,  and  thereby  strengthens  Uiemfor  preying,  in 
the  end,  on  their  unhappy  victuns. 

3  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  imagine,  that  the  pain  of  sei'^-de- 
nial,  is  confined  to  virtue.  He  who  follows  ihe  world,  as 
much  as  he  who  follows  Christ,  must  '•  take  up  his  cross," 
and  to  him,  assuredly,  it  will  prove  a  more  oppressive  burrien. 
Vice  allows  all  our  passions  to  range  uncontroulled  ,  nr.d 
where  ctili  claims  to  be  superiour,  it  is  impossible  to  gruti- 
fy  a!!.  The  predominant  desire,  can  only  be  indulged  at  ihe 
expense  of  its  rival. 

4  No  mortifications  which  vi?-<!/i?  exacts,  are  more  severe 
than  those,  which  ambition  imposes  upon  the  love  of  eaic. 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  57 

pnde,  upon  inlerest,  and  covetonsness,  upon  vaniU*.  Self- 
deniai,  therefore,'  bclong-s,  in  common,  to  vice  and  virtue  : 
but  with  this  remakable  ditierence,  that  the  passions  which 
virtue  requires  us  to  mortify,  it  tends  to  weaken  ;  whereas, 
those  which  vice  obliges  us  to  deny,  it  at  the  same  time, 
strengthens.  The  cne  diminishes  the  pain  of  self-denial,  by 
moderating  the  demad  of  passion  ;  the  other  increases  it,  by 
rendering  those  demands  imperious  and  violent. 

5  What  distresses  that  occur  in  the  calm  life  of  virtue, 
can  be  compared  to  those  tortures,  which  remorse  of  con- 
science intliots  on  the  wicked  ;  to  those  severe  humiliations, 
arising  from  guilt,  combined  with  misfortunes,  which  sink 
them  to  the  dust  ;  to  those  violent  agitations  of  shame  and 
disappointment,  which  sometimes  drive  them  to  the  most 
fatal  extremities,  and  make  them  abhor  their  existence  ! 
How  often,  in  the  midst  of  those  disastrous  situations,  into 
■which  their  crimes  have  brought  them,  have  they  execrated 
the  seductions  of  vice  ;  and,  with  bitter  regret,  looked  back 
to  the  day  on  which  they  first  forsook  the  path  of  inno- 
cence !  BLAIR. 
SECTION  XI. 

On  Contentment. 
CONTENTMENT  produces,  in  some  measure,  all  those 
effects  which  the  Alchymist  usually  ascribes  to  what  he 
calls  the  philosopher's  stone ;  and  if  it  does  not  bring  riches^ 
it  does  the  same  thing,  by  banishing  the  desire  of  them.  If 
it  cannot  remove  the  disquietudes  arising  from  a  man's  mind, 
body,  or  fortune,  it  makes  him  easy  under  tliem.  It  has  in- 
deed a  kindly  influence  on  the  soul  of  man,  in  respect  of  ev- 
ery being  to  whom  he  stands  related. 

2  It  extinguishes  all  murmur,  repining,  and  ingratitude, 
towards  that  Being  who  has  allotted  him  his  part  to  act  in 
this  world.  It  destroys  all  inordinate  ambition,  and  every 
tendency  to  corruption,  with  regard  to  the  community  where- 
in he  is  placed.  It  gives  sweetness  to  liis  conversation,  and 
a  perpetual  serenity  to  all  his  tlioughts. 

3  Among  the  many  methods  whicli  might  be  made  use  of 
for  acquiring-  this  virtue,  I  shall  mention  onlj-  the  two  follow- 
ing, f  irst  of  all,  a  man  should  always  consider  how  much 
he  has  more  than  he  Mants  :  and  secondly,  how  much  more 
unhaopy  he  might  be,  than  he  really  is. 

4  First,  a  man  should  always  consider  how  much  he  has 
more  than  he  wants.  I  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  tlie 
reply  which  Aristip])us  made  to  one,  wlio  condoled  with  him 
upon  the   loss  of  a  farm :  "  Why,"  said  he  "  1  have  three 


58  Tlie  English  Reader  Part  1. 

farms  still,  and  you  have  but  one ;  so  that  1  ought  rather  to 
be  afflicted  for  you,  than  you  for  me." 

5  On  the  contrary,  fooHsh  men  are  more  apt  to  consider 
what  the}'  have  lost,  tlian  what  they  possess,  and  to  fix  their 
eyes  upon  those  who  are  richer  than  themselves,  rather  than 
on  those  who  are  under  g'rcater  dijficulties.      All  the   real 

Eleasures  and  conveniences  of  life,  lie  in  a  narrow  compass  ; 
ut  it  is  the  humour  of  mankind  to  be  always  looking  for- 
ward, and  straining  after  one  who  has  got  the  start  of  them 
in  wealth  and  honour. 

6  For  this  reason,  as  none  can  properly  be  called  rich,  who 
have  not  more  than  they  want,  there  are  few  rich  men  in  any 
of  the  ]ioliter  nations,  but  among  the  middle  sort  of  people, 
who  keep  their  wislies  witliin  their  fortunes,  and  have  more 
wealth  than  they  know  how  to  enjoy. 

7  Persons  of  a  higher  rank,  live  in  a  kind  of  splendid  pov- 
erty ;  and  are  perpetually  wanting,  because,  instead  of  ac- 
quiescing m  the  *o/!(^  pleasures  of  life,  they  endeavour  to 
outvie  one  another  in  shadows  and  appearances.  Men  of 
sense  have  at  all  times  beheld,  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth, 
this  sillj  game  that  is  playing  over  their  heads  ;  and,  by  con- 
tracting their  desires,  thej'  enjoy  all  that  secret  satisfaction 
which  others  are  always  in  quest  of. 

8  The  truth  is,  this  ridiculous  chase  Siher  inuig-inary  plea* 
sures  cannot  be  sufficiently  exposed,  as  it  is  the  great  source 
of  those  evils  which  generally  undo  a  nation.  Let  a  man's 
estate  be  what  it  may,  he  is  3.  poor  man,  if  he  does  not  live 
within  it ;  and  naturally  sets  himself  on  sale  to  any  one  that 
can  give  him  his  price. 

9  When  Pittacus,  after  the  death  of  his  brother,  who  had 
left  him  a  good  estate,  was  offered  a  great  sum  of  money  by 
the  king  of  Lydia,  he  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but  told 
him  he  had  already  more  by  half  than  he  knew  what  to 
do  with.  In  short,  content,  is  equivalent  lo  wealth,  ^od  lux- 
ury, to  poverty  ;  or,  to  give  the  thought  a  more  agreeable 
turn,  "•  Content  is  natural  wealth,"  says  Socrates  ;  to  which 
I  shall  add,  luxury  is  artificial  povertj". 

10  I  shall  therefore  recommend  to  the  consideration  of 
those,  who  are  always  aiming  at  superfluous  and  imaginary 
enjoyments,  and  who  will  not  be  at  the  trouble  of  contract- 
ing their  desires,  an  excellent  saying  of  Bion  tl>e  philoso- 
pher, namely,  "  That  no  man  has  so  much  care,  as  he  who 
endeavours  after  tlie  most  happiness." 

11  In  the  second  place,  eveiy  one  ought  to  reflect  how 
much  more  unha)ipj'  he   might  be.  than  he  really  is. — The 

foiiner  consideration  took  in  all  those,  who  are  sufficiently 


Ckap.  3.  Didactic    Pieces.  59 

provided  with  the  means  to  make  themselves  easy  ;  thts  re- 
gards such  as  actually  lie  under  some  pressure  or  misfor- 
tune. These  may  receive  great  alleviation,  from  such  a 
comparison  as  the  unhappy  person  may  make  between  him- 
self and  others ;  or  between  the  misfortune  which  he  suffers, 
and  greater  misfortunes  which  might  have  befallen  him. 

12  I  like  the  story  of  the  honest  Dutchman,  who,  upon 
breaking  his  leg  by  a  fall  from  the  main-mast,  told  the  stand- 
ers  by,  it  was  a  great  mercy  that  it  was  not  his  neck.  To 
which,  since  I  am  got  into  quotations,  give  me  leave  to  add  the 
saying  of  an  old  philosopher,  who,  after  having  invited  some 
of  his  friends  to  dine  with  him,  was  ri'ffled  by  a  person  that 
came  into  the  room  in  a  passion,  and  threw  down  the  table 
that  stood  before  them.  "  Every  one,"  says  he,  "  has  his  ca- 
lamity ;  and  he  is  a  liappy  man  that  has  no  greater  than  this." 

1:3  We  find  an  instance  to  the  same  purpose  in  the  life  of 
doctor  Hammond,  written  by  Bishop  Fell.  As  this  good  man 
was  troubled  with  a  complication  of  distempers,  when  he 
had  the  gout  upon  him,  he  used  to  thank  God  that  it  was  not 
the  stone  ;  and  when  he  had  the  stone,  that  he  had  not  both 
iiese  distempers  on  him  at  the  same  time. 

14  I  cannot  conclude  this  essay  without  observing,  that 
there  never  was  any  system  besides  that  of  Christianity, 
which  could  eifectiitilly  produce  in  themindof  man,  the  vir- 
tue I  have  been  hitherto  spealsing  of.  In  order  to  make  us 
contented  with  our  condition,  mnntj  of  the  present  philoso- 
phers tell  us,  that  our  discontent  only  hurts  ourselves,  with- 
out being  able  to  make  any  alteration  in  our  circumstances  ; 
others,  tliat  whatever  evil  befalls  lis  is  derived  to  us  by  a  fa- 
tal necessity,  to  which  superiour  beings  themselves  are  sub- 
ject ;  vihWe  others,  very  gravely,  tell  tlie  man  who  is  misera- 
ble, that  it  is  necessary  he  should  be  so,  to  keep  up  the  har- 
moni/  of  the  universe  ;  and  that  the  scheme  of  Providence 
would  be  troubled  and  perverted  were  he  otherwise. 

15  These,  and  the  hke  considerations,  rather  silence  than 
srdisft/  a  man.  They  may  show  him  that  his  discontent  is 
unreasonable,  but  they  are  by  no  means  sufficient  to  relieve 
it.  They  rathei  give  despair  than  consolation.  In  a  word, 
a  man  might  reply  to  one  of  these  comforters,  as  Augustus 
did  to  his  friend,  who  advised  him  not  to  grieve  for  the  death 
of  a  person  whom  he  loved,  because  his  grief  could  not  fetch 
him  again  :  "  It  is  for  that  very  reason,"  said  the  emperor, 
"  that  I  grieve." 

1 6  On  the  contra r}^,  religion  bears  a  more  tender  regard 
to  human  nature.  It  prescribes  to  every  miserable  man  the 
means  of  bettering  his  condition  :    nay,  it  shows  him,  that 


60  The  English  Pender  Part  1 . 

bearer) nr  his  afflictions  as  he  ought  to  do,  will  naturally  end 
in  the  removal  of  them.  It  makes  him  easy  here,  because  it 
can  make  him  happy  hereafter.  addtso. 

SECTION  XII. 
Rank  and  riches  afford  no  ground  for  emry. 
OF  all  the  grounds  of  envy  among  men,  superiority  in 
rank  and  fortime,  is  the  most  general.  Hence  tlie  maligni- 
tj'  which  the  poor  commonly  bear  to  the  rich,  as  engrossing 
to  themselves  all  the  comforts  of  life.  Hence,  the  evil  eve 
with  which  jiersons  of //i/t-n^wr  station,  scrutinize  ihote  who 
are  above  them  in  rank  ;  and  if  they  approach  to  that  rank, 
their  envy  is  generally  strongest  against  such  as  are  just 
one  step  higher  than  themselves. 

2  Alas  !  my  friends,  all  this  envious  disquietude,  which 
agitates  the  world,  arises  from  a  deceitful  figure  which  im- 
poses on  the  public  view.  False  colours  are  himg  out :  the 
real  state  of  men,  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be.  Tlie  order  of 
society,  requires  adistincaon  of  ranks  to  take  plpce  :  but  in 
point  of /ia/)p?ne5.v,  all  men  come  much  nearer  to  equalitv, 
than  is  commonly  imagined  ;  and  the  circumstances,  which 
tb-.-n  any  material  difference  of  happiness  among  them,  art 
not  of  that  nature  which  renders  them  grounds  of  envy. 

3  The  poor  man  possesses  not,  it  is  true,  some  of  the  con- 
veniences and  ])leasures  of  the  rich ;  but,  in  return,  Af  is  free 
from  many  embarrassments  to  which  they  are  subject.  By 
the  simplicity  and  uniformity  of  his  life,  he  is  delivered  from 
that  variety  of  cares,  which  perplex  those  who  have  great 
affairs  to  manage,  intricate  plans  to  pursue,  many  enemies, 
perhaps,  to  encounter  in  the  pursuit. 

4  In  the  tranquillity  of  his  small  habitation,  and  private 
family,  he  enjoys  a  peace  which  is  often  unknown  at  courts. 
The  gratifications  of  nature,  which  are  always  the  most 
satisfactory,  are  possessed  by  him  to  their  full  extent  ;  and  if 
he  be  a  stranger  to  the  refined  pleasures  of  the  wealthy,  he 
is  unacquainted  also  with  the  desire  of  them,  and,  by  conse- 
quence, feels  no  want. 

5  His  plain  meal  satisfies  his  appetite,  ivith  a  relish  prob- 
ably higher  than  that  of  the  rich  man,  who  sits  down  to  his 
luxurious  banquet.  His  sleep  is  more  sound;  his  health 
more  firm ;  he  knows  not  what  spleen,  languor  and  listless- 
cess  are.  His  accustomed  employments  or  labours,  are  not 
more  oppressive  to  him,  than  the  labour  of  attendance  on 
courts,  and  tlie  great,  the  labours  of  dress,  t!ie  fatigue  of 
umusements,  the  very  weight  of  id'eness,  fjequeatly  are  to 
the  rich. 


Chap.  3.  Didaidc  Pieces.  b 

6  In  tlie  mean  time,  all  the  beauty  of  the  face  of  nature, 
all  the  enjoyments  of  domestic  society,  all  the  gaiety  and 
cheerfulness  of  an  easy  mind,  are  as  open  to  ki7R  as  to  those 
o(  the  highest  rank.  The  splendour  of  retinue,  the  sound 
of  titles,  the  appearances  of  high  respect,  are  indeed  sooth- 
ing, for  a  short  time,  to  tlie  great ;  but,  become  familiar, 
they  are  soon  forgotten. — Custom  effaces  their  impression. 
They  sink  into  the  rank  of  those  ordinarj'  things,  which  dai- 
ly recur,  without  raising  any  sensation  of  joy. 

7  Let  us  cease,  therefore,  from  looking  up  with  discon- 
tent and  envy  to  those,  whom  birth  or  fortune  has  placed 
above  us.  Let  us  adjust  the  balance  of  happiness  fairly. — 
VV^hen  we  think  o( the  enjoyments  we  want,  we  should  think 
also  of  the  troubles  from  which  we  are  free.  If  we  allow 
their  just  value  to  the  comforts  we  possess,  we  shall  find 
reason  to  rest  satisfied,  with  a  very  moderate,  though  not  an 
opulent  and  splendid  condition  of  fortune.  Often,  did  we 
know  the  whole,  we  should  be  inclined  to  pity  the  state  of 
those  whom  we  now  envy.  blair. 

SECTION  XIII. 

Patience  under  provocations  our  interest  as  well  as  duty. 

THE  wide  circle  of  human  society,  is  diversified  by  an 
endless  variety  of  characters,  dispositions,  and  passions. 
Uniformity  is,  in  7io  respect,  the  genius  of  the  world.  Eve- 
ry man  is  marked  by  some  peculiarity,  which  distinguishes 
him  from  another :  and  no  where  can  two  individuals  be 
found  who  are  exactly,  and  in  all  respects,  alike.  Where 
80  much  diversity  obtains,  it  cannot  but  happen,  that 
in  the  intercourse  Avhich  men  are  obliged  to  maintain,  their 
tempers  will  often  be  ill  adjusted  to  that  intercourse  ;  will 
jar  and  interfere  with  each  other. 

2  Hence,  in  every  station,  the  highest  as  weU  as  the  low- 
est, and  in  every  condition  of  life,  public,  private,  and  do- 
mestic, occasions  of  irritation  frequently  arise.  We  are 
provoked,  sometimes,  by  the  folly  and  levity  of  those  with 
whom  we  are  connected  ;  sometimes,  by  their  indifference 
or  neglect :  by  the  incivility  of  a  friend,  the  hauglitiness  of 
a  superiour,  or  th«  insolent  behaviour  of  one  in  lower  station. 

3  Hardly  a  day  passes,  without  somewhat  or  other  occur- 
ring, which  serves  to  ruffle  the  man  of  impatient  spirit.  Of 
course,  such  a  man  lives  in  a  continual  storm.  He  knows 
not  what  it  is  to  enjoy  a  train  of  good  humour.  Servants,  neigh- 
bours, friends,  spouse,  and  children,  all,  through  the  unre- 
strained violence  of  his  temper,  become  sources  of  distur- 
wance  and  vexation  to  him      In  vain  is  affluence  :  in  vain 


62  Tip.  Engl'sh  Recuhr.  Pari  I 

are  health  and  prosperity.  The  least  trifle  is  sufficient  to 
«iiscL»m|>ose  his  mind,  and  poison  his  pleasures.  His  very 
uinuff  inf;nts  arc  mixed  with  turbulence  and  passion. 

4  I  woiiid  beseecli  this  man  to  consider,  of  what  smaH 
moment  the  provccations  which  he  receives,  or  at  least 
hm^'ncs  himself  to  receive,  are  really  in  themselves  ;  but 
of  wliat  great  moment  he  makes  them,  by  suffering-  them 
to  deprive  him  of  the/>os*es*;on  of  himself.  I  would  beseech 
him  \o  consider,  how  many  hours  of  happiness  he  throws 
away,  which  a  little  more  patience  would  allow  him  to  enjoy  ,- 
a  d  how  much  he  puts  in  the  power  of  the  most  insig^nificant 
persons,  to  render  him  miserable. 

5  '•  But  who  can  expect,"  we  hear  him  exclaim,  "  that  he 
IS  to  possess  the  insensibility  of  a  stone?  How  is  it  possible 
for  humao  nature  to  endure  so  manj'  repeated  provocations  ? 
or  to  bear  calmly  with  so  unreasonable  behaviour  .'" — My 
brother  I  if  thou  canst  liearwith  no  instances  of  unreasonable 
behaviour,  withdraw  thyself  from  the  world.  Thou  art  no 
long-er  fit  to  livein  it.  Leave  the  intercourse  of  men.  Re- 
treat to  the  mountain,  and  the  desert,  or  shut  thyself  up  in 
a  cell.     For  here,  ia  the  midst  of  society,  offences  must  come. 

6  \Xe  mig-ht  as  well  expect,  when  we  behold  a  calm  atmos 
phere,  and  a  clear  sky,  that  no  clouds  were  ever  to  rise,  and 
no  winds  to  blow,  as  that  our  life  werelong'to  proceed,  with- 
out receiving'  provocations  from  human  frailty.  The  careless 
and  the  imprudent,  the  giddy  and  the  fickle,  the  ung-ratefuJ 
and  the  interested,  every  where  meet  us.  They  are  the 
Driers  and  thorns,  with  which  the  paths  of  human  life  are  be- 
set. He  only,  who  can  hold  his  course  among  them  with  pa- 
tience and  equanimity,  he  who  is  prepared  to  bear  what  he 
must  expect  to  happen,  is  worthy  of  the  name  of  a  man. 

7  If  we  preserved  oursehes  composed  but  for  a  moment, 
we  should  perceive  theinsignificancyofwos^  of  those  provo- 
cations which  we  magnify  so  highly.  When  a  few  suns 
more  have  rolled  over  our  heads,  the  storm  will,  of  itself, 
have  subsided;  the  ca>ise  of  our  present  impatience  and  cTis- 
turbance,  will  be  utterly  forgotten.  Can  we  not  then  anti- 
cipate this  hour  of  calmness  to  ourselves  ;  and  begin  to  enjoy 
the  peace  which  it  will  certainly  bring  .' 

}i  ]f  ofher.o  have  behaved  improperly,  let  us  leave  them  to 
their  own  folly,  without  becoming  the  victim  of  their  caprice, 
and  punishing  o!/?-.?e.V.y  on  their  account. — Patience,  in  this 
exercise  of  it,  cannot  be  too  much  stud)ed,  by  all  who  wish 
their  life  to  flow  in  a  smooth  stream.  It  is  the  rsnsop  of  a 
man.  in  opposition  to  the  passion  of  a  iliihi.  It  is  thceryoy- 
nient  of  peace,  in  opposition  to  tinroar  and  cotifitsion. 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  63 

SECTION  XIV 

J^/uderation  in  our  wishes  recommended . 

THE  active  mind  of  man,  seldom  or  never  rests  satisfied 
w'\i\\  lis  present  condition,  how  prosperous  soever.  Orig-inal 
ly  formed  for  a  wider  range  of  objects,  for  a  higher  s|. here 
of  enjoyments,  it  finds  itself,  in  every  situation  of  fortune, 
straitened  and  confined.  Sensible  of  deficiency  in  its  stale, 
it  is  ever  sending  forth  the  fond  desire,  the  aspiring  wis-h,  af- 
ter something  beyond  what  is  enjoyed  at  present. 

2  Hence,  that  restlessness  which  prevails  so  generally 
among  mankind.  Hence,  that  disgust  of  pleasures  which 
they  have  tried  ;  that  passion  for  novelty  ;  that  (imbition  ol 
rising  to  some  degree  of  eminence  or  felicity,  of  which  ihey 
liave  formed  to  themselves  an  indistinct  idea.  All  which  may 
be  considered  as  indications  of  a  certain  native,  original  great- 
ness in  the  human  soul,  swelling  beyond  the  limits  of  its  pres- 
ent condition,  and  pointing  to  the  higher  objects  for  wliich 
it  was  made.  Happy,  if  these  latent  remains  of  our  primi- 
tive state,  served  to  direct  our  wishes  towards  their  proper 
destination,  and  to  lead  us  into  the  path  of  true  bliss. 

3  But  in  tliis  dark  and  bewildered  state,  the  aspiring  ten- 
dency of  our  nattire,  unfortuna.tely  takes  an  opposite  di- 
rection, and  feeds  a  very  misplaced  ambition.  The  flattering 
appearances  which  here  present  tliemselves  to  sense :  I'ne 
distinctions  which  fortune  confers ;  the  advantages  and  plea- 
sures which  we  imagine  the  world  to  be  capable  of  bestowing, 
nil  up  the  ultimate  wish  of  most  men.  These  are  the  ob- 
jects wliich  engross  their  solitary  musings,  and  stimulate'^ 
tlieir  active  labours  ;  which  warm  the  breasts  of  the  young,  • 
rmimate  the  industry  of  of  the  middle  aged,  and  often  keej) 
alive  the  passions  of  the  old,  until  the  very  close  of  life. 

4  Assuredly',  there  is  nothing  unlawful"  in  our  wishing-  to 
be  freed  from  whatever  is  disagreeable,  and  to  obtain  a  fuller 
enjoyment  of  the  comforts  of  life.  But  when  these  wishes 
are  not  tempered  by  reason,  they  are  in  danger  ofprecipita- 
ting  us  into  much  extravagance  and  folly.  Desires  and 
wishes,  are  the  first  springs  of  action.  When  they  become 
exorbitant,  the  Avhole  character  is  likely  to  be  tainted. 

5  If  we  suffer  our  fancy  to  create  to  itself  worlds  of  ideal 
liapp'.ness,  we  shall  discompose  the  peace  and  order  of  our 
minds,  and  foment  many  liurtful  pa'-sions.  Here,  then,  let 
moderation  begin  its  reign,  by  biinging  within  reasonable 
bounds  the  v/ishes  that  we  form.  As  soon  as  thev  become 
extravagant,  let  us  check  them,  hy  proper  reflections  on  the 


64  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

fallacious  nature  of  those  objects,  which  the  worW  hang-s  out 
to  allure  desire. 

6  You  have  strayed,  my  friends  from  the  road  which  con- 
ducts to  felicity  ;  you  have  dishonoured  the  native  dij^nity  of 
j'our  souls,  in  allowing'  your  wishes  to  terminate  on  nothing- 
higher  than  worldly  ideas  of  greatness  or  happiness.  Your 
imag-ination  roves  in  a  land  ci  shadows.  Unreal  forms  de- 
ceive you.  It  is  no  more  than  a  phantom,  an  illusion  of  iiap- 
piness,  which  attracts  your  fond  admiration ;  nay,  an  illusion 
of  happiness,  which  often  conceals  much  real  misery. 

7  Do  you  imagine  that  all  are  happy,  who  have  attained  to 
those  summits  of  distinction,  towards  which  your  wishes  as- 
pire ?  Alas !  how  frequently  has  experience  shown,  that 
where  roues  were  supposed  to  bloom,  nothing  but  briers  and 
thorns  grew  \  Reputation,  beauty,  riches,  grandeur,  nay, 
roijalty  itse'f,  would,  many  a  time,  have  been  gladly  exchang- 
ed by  the  possessors,  for  that  more  quiet  and  humble  station, 
with  which  ijou  are  now  dissatisfied. 

8  With  all  that  is  splendid  and  shining  in  the  world,  it  is  de- 
creed that  there  should  mix  many  deep  shades  of  woe.  On 
the  elevated  situations  of  fortune,  the  great  calamities  of  life 
chiefly  fall.  There,  the  storm  spends  its  violence,  and  there, 
the  thunder  breaks  ;  while,  safe  and  unhurt,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  vale  remain  below  ; — Retreat,  then,  from  those  vain 
and  pernicious  excursions  of  extravagant  desire. 

9  Satisfy  yourselves  witli  what  is  rational  and  attainable. 
Train  your  minds  to  moderate  views  of  human  life,  and  hu- 
man happiness.  Remember,  and  admire  the  wisdom  of 
Agur's  petition.     "  Remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies. — 

^Give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches.      Feed  me  wlih  food 

*  convenient  for  me  :  lest  I  be  full  and  deny   thee,  and  say, 

who  is  the  Lord  ?    or  lest  I  be  poor,  and  steal,  and  take  the 

name  of  my  God  in  vain."  blair. 

SECTION  XV. 

Omniscience  and  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,   the  source  oj 
consolation  to  good  men. 

1  WAS  yesterday,  about  sun-set,  walking  in  the  open 
fields,  till  the  night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I  at  first  lihii:s- 
ed  myself  with  all  the  richness  and  variety  of  colours,  which  ap- 
peared in  the  western  parts  of  heaven.  In  proportion  as  they 
faded  away  and  went  out,  several  stars  and  planets  appeared 
one  after  another  till  the  whole  firmament  was  in  a  glow. 

2  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was  exceedingly  heightened 
and  enlivened,  by  the  season  of  the  year,  and  the  rays  of 
all  those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it.      The  galaxv, 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  pieces.  65 

appeared  m  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene, 
the  full  moon  ruse,  at  length,  in  that  clouded  mujest}',  '.yhich 
Milton  takes  notice  of;  and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  jncluia 
of  nature,  which  was  more  finely  shaded,  and  disposed 
amonjf  softer  lights  than  that  which  the  sun  had  befoiC  dis- 
covered to  me. 

3  As  I  was  survej'ing'  the  moon  walking  in  her  brig-htness, 
and  taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations,  a  thought 
arose  in  me,  which  I  believe  very  often  peq5lex.es  and  dis- 
turbs men  of  serious  and  contemplative  natures.  David  Aim- 
se!/ie[l  into  it  in  that  reflection :  "  When  I  consider  the  iieav- 
ens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers;  the  moon  and  the  stars  wliich 
thou  hast  drdained,  what  is  wian  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him, 
and  the  son  of  man  that  thou  rcgardest  him !" 

4  In  the  same  manner,  when  I  consider  that  infinite  host 
of  Slavs,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  suns,  wliich 
were  then  shining  upon  me ;  with  Itiose  innumerable  sets  of 
planets  or  worlds,  which  were  moving  round  their  respective 
suns  ;  when  I  still  enlarged  the  idea,  and  supposed  anotiier 
heaven  of  suns  and  worlds,  rising  still  above  this  which  I  dis- 
covered ;  and  these  still  eniight<ined  by  a  superiour  firmament 
of  luminaries,  which  are  planted  at  so  great  a  distance,  that 
they  may  appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  former,  as  the  stains 
do  to  me :  in  sliort,  v/hile  I  jmrsued  this  tliought,  i  could 
not  but  reflect  oa  that  little  insignificant  figure  which  I  nii/- 
se'f,  bore  amidst  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 

5  Were  the  sun,  whicii  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation, 
with  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds  that  move  about  him, 
utterly  extinguished  and  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  miss- 
ed, more  than  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  T 
space  they  possess,  is  so  exceedingly  little  in  comparison^] 
the  whole,  it  would  scarcely  make  a  blank  in  the  creation. 
The  chasm  would  be  imperceptible  to  an  eye  that  could  take 
in  the  whole  compass  of  nature,  and  pass  from  one  end  of 
the  creation  to  the  other;  as  it  is  possible  there  may  be  such 
a  sense  in  oui'seives  hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which  are  at 
present  more  exalted  than  ourselves.  By  the  help  of  glass- 
es, we  see  many  stars,  which  we  do  not  discover  with  our 
nakq^eyes :  and  the  finer  our  telescopes  are,  the  greater 
etiil  are  our  discoveries. 

6  fluygenius  carries  this  thought  so  far,  that  he  does  not 
tliink-it  impossible  there  may  be  stars,  whose  light  has  not  yet 
travelled  down  to  us,  since  their  first  creation.  There  is 
no  question  that  the  universe  has  certain  bounds  set  to  it; 
but  wlien  we  cousidcr  that  it  is  the  work  of  Infinite  Power 
prompted  by  Infinite  Goodness,  with  an  iufinite  space   to 

<r  it 


66  The.  English  Raider.  Part  1. 

exert  itself  in,  how  can  our  imaginntlon  set  any  bounds  to  it  ? 

7  To  return,  therefore,  to  my  fir&t  thought,  1  could  not  but 
look  upon  myself  with  secret  horror,  as  a  being  that  wasuot 
worth  the  smallest  regard  of  one,  who  had  so  great  a  work 
under  his  care  and  sujierintendency.  I  was  afraid  of  being 
(merlooked  amidst  the  immensity  of  na*ure,  and  lod  among 
that  infinite  variety  of  creatures,  which,  in  all  probability, 
swarm  through  all  these  immeasurable  regions  of  matter. 

f)  In  order  to  recover  myself  from  this  motifying  thought, 
I  considered  thr.t  it  took  its  rise  from  those  narrow  concep- 
tions, which  we  are  apt  to  entertain  of  the  Divine  Nature. 
We  ourselves  cannot  attend  to  many  different  objects  at  the 
same  time.  If  we  are  careful  to  mspect  some  things,  we 
must  of  course  neglect  Uhers.  This  imperfection  which  we 
observe  in  ourselves,  is  an  imperfectioi  that  cleaves,  in  some 
degree,  tocrcatuics  of  the  highest  capacities,  as  they  are 
creatures,  that  is,  beings  of  finite  and  limited  natures. 

9  The  presence  of  tvcrij  created  being,  is  confined  to  a  cer- 
tain measure  of  space;  and,  consequently,  his  observation  is 
stinted  to  a  certain  number  of  objects.  The  sphere  in  which 
we  move,  and  act,  and  understand,  is  of  a  wider  circumfer- 
ence to  one  creature,  than  another,  according  as  we  rise  one 
above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence.  But  the  widest  of 
these  our  spheres,  has  its  circumference. 

10  When,  therefore,  we  reflect  on  the  Divine  Nature,  we 
are  so  used  and  accustomed  to  this  imperfection  in  ourselves, 
that  we  cannot  forbear,  in  some  measure,  ascribing  it  to  him, 
in  whom  there  is  no  shadow  of  imperfection.  Our  reascn, 
indeed,  assures  us,  that  his  attributes  are  infinite :  but  the 
jpoorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such,  that  it  cannot  forbear 

^Setting  bounds  to  every  thing  it  contemplates,  till  our  reason 
crfmes  again  to  our  succour,  and  throws  down  all  those  little 
prejudices,  which  rise  in  us  unawares,  and  are  natural  to  the 
mind  of  man. 

11  We  shall  therefore  utterlj^  extinguish  this  melancholy 
tliought,  of  our  being  overlooked  by  our  Maker,  in  the  multi- 
plicity of  his  works,  and  the  infinity  of  those  objects  among 
which  he  seems  to  be  incessantly  emploj-ed,  if  we  consider, 
in  the  tirst  place,  that  he  is  omnipresent ;  and,  in  the  second 
that  he  is  omniscient. 

I'J  If  we  consider  him  in  his  omn-presence,  bis  bemg 
])asses  through,  actuates,  and  supports,  the  whole  frame  ol 
nature.  His  creation,  in  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of  him. 
There  is  nothing  he  has  made,  which  is  either  so  distant,  so 
little,  or  so  inconsiderable,  that  he  does  not  essentially  reside 
in  it.    His  substance  is  within  the  substance  of  everv  being 


Ctiap,  3.  Argumentative  Pieces.  67 

whether  material  or  immaterial,  and  as  inlimaf.ely  present 
to  it,  as  that  being  is  to  itself. 

13  It  would  be  an  imperfection  in  him,  were  he  able  to 
move  out  of  one  place  into  another ;  or  to  withdraw  himself 
from  any  thing  he  has  created,  or  from  any  part  of  that  space 
which  he  diffused  and  spread  abroad  to  mfinity.  In  short, 
to  speak  of  him  in  the  languag-e  of  the  old  philosophers,  he 
IS  a  Being-  whose  centre,  is  every  where,  and  his  circumfer- 
ence, no  where. 

14  la  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as  well  as  omni- 
present. His  omniscience,  indeed,  necessarily  and  natural- 
ly, flows  from  his  omnipresence.  Ke  cannot  but  be  con- 
scious of  ever\'  motion  that  arises  in  the  whole  material  world, 
which  he  thus  essentially  pervades ;  and  of  every  thought 
that  is  stirring  in  the  intellectual  world,  to  every  part  cf 
which  he  is  thus  intimately  united. 

13  Were  tiie  soul  separated  from  the  body,  and  should  it 
with  one  glance  of  thought  start  beyond  tlie  bounds  of  the 
creation ;  should  it  for  millions  of  3"cars,  continue  its  pro- 
gress; through  infinite  space,  %vith  the  same  activit}',  it  would 
still  find  itself  within  the  embrace  of  its  Creator,  and  encom- 
passed by  the  immensity  of  the  Godhead. 

16  In  </(/*  consideration  of  the  Almighty's  omnipresence 
and  omniscience,  every  uncomfortable  thought  vanishes. 
He  cannot  but  regard  every  tiling  that  has  being,  especially 
such  of  his  creatures  who  fear  they  are  not  regarded  by  him. 
fie  is  privy  to  all  their  thoughts,  and  to  that  anxietj^  of  heart 
in  particular,  which  is  apt  to  trouble  them  on  tliis  occasion; 
for,  as  it  is  impossible  he  should  overlook  any  of  his  crea- 
tures, so  we  may  be  confident  that  he  regards  with  an  eye  of 
mercy,  those  who  endeavour  to  recommend  themselves  to  his 
notice,  and  in  unfeigned  humility  of  heart,  think  themselves 
unworthy  that  he  should  be  mindful  oi  them.  addisox. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ARGUJIEJVTATIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Happinesi  is  founded  in  rectitude  of  conduct, 
ALL  men  pursue  good,  and  would  be  happy,  if  they 
knew  how:  not  happy  for  minutes,  and  miserable  (or  hours; 
but  happr,^f  possible,  through  every  part  of  their  exis- 
leace.  Either,  therefore,  there  is  a  good  of  tliis  steady, 
durable  kind,  ot  there  is  not.  1^ not,  then  all  good  must  6e 
transient  and  uncertain;  and  if  so,  an  object  of  the  lowest 
value,  which  can  little  deserve  our  attention  or  inquiry 


eS  The  English  Reader.  Pari  1 . 

2  But  if  there  he  a  better  ^ood,  such  a  g-ood  as  we  are  seek- 
ing-, like  every  other  thing,  it  must  be  derived  from  suw.e 
cause ;  and  that  cause  must  he  external,  internal,  or  mix- 
ed ;  in  as  much  as,  except  these  three,  there  is  no  other  pos- 
sible. Now  a  steady,  durable  good,  cannot  be  dfrived 
from  an  external  cause :  since  all  derived  from  externals 
must  fluctuate  as  tliey  fluctuate. 

3  By  the  same  rule,  it  cannot  be  derived  from  a  mixlure 
of  the  two;  because  the  part  which  is  external,  will  propor- 
tionabiy  destro)'  its  essence.  What  then  remains  out  the 
cause  internal^  the  very  cause  which  we  have  supposed, 
when  we  place  the  sovereign  good  in  mind, — in  rectitude  of 

conduct.  KjiRRIS. 

SECTION  11. 

Virtue  and  piety  man''s  hig:hcst  interest. 

1  FIND  myself  existing  upon  a  Uttle  spot,  surrounded  eve- 
ry way  by  an  immense,  unknown  expansion. — Where  am 
I?  What  sort  of  place  do  I  inhabit?  Is  it  exactly  accomjno- 
dated  in  every  instance  to  my  convenience?  Is  there  no  ex- 
cess of  cold,  none  of  heat,  to  ofiend  me  ?  Am  I  never  annoy- 
ed by  animals,  either  of  my  oicn  or  a  different  kind  ?  Is  eve- 
ry thing  subservient  to  me,  as  though  I  };ad  ordered  all  my- 
self? No — nothing  like  it — the  farthest  from  it  possible. 

2  The  world  appears  not,  then,  originally  made  for  th«. 
private  convenience  of  me  alone  ? — It  dees  not.  But  is  it 
not  possible  so  to  accommodate  it,  by  my  own  particular  in- 
dustry? If  to  accommodate  mau  and  beast,  heaven  ajid 
earth,  if  this  be  beyond  m.e.  it  is  not  possible.  Wliat  cor  se- 
quence then  follows ;  or  can  there  be  any  other  than  this  ? — 
If  I  seek  an  interest  of  my  own,  detached  from  that  cf  others, 
I  seek  an  interest  which  is  chmiencal,  and  which  can  never 
have  existence. 

3  How  then  must  I  determine?  Have  I  no  interest  at  all ' 
If  I  have  not,  I  am  stationed  here  to  no  purpose.  But  ^vhy 
no  interest?  Can  J  be  contented  with  none  but  one  seperate 
and  detached?  Is  a  social  interest,  joined  wi'.h  others.  siTcti 
an  absurdity  is  not  to  be  admitted?  The  bee,  tlie  heaver, 
and  the  tribes  of  herding  animals,  are  sufficient  to  coiivince 
me,  that  the  thing  is  somewhere  at  least  possible. 

4  How,  ttien,  am  I  assured  that  it  is  not  equally  tnie  of 
man?  Admit  it,  and  what  follows?  If  «o,  then  honnvr  zr.o. 
justice  are  my  interest :  then  the  whole  train  of  moral  virtue!, 
are  my  interest;  without  some  portion  cf  which,  not  even 
thieves  can  maintain  societj". 

5  Biit,  farther  stiU — I  stop  not  here  — I  pursue  this  social 


Ctmp.  4.  Argumentative  Pieces.  69 

interest  as  far  as  I  can  trace  rey  several  relations.  I  pass 
from  my  own  stock,  in}-  own  nei<];!ibourhood,  my  own  nation, 
to  the  whole  race  of  mankind,  as  dispersed  throughout  the 
earth.  Am  I  not  related  to  them  all,  by  the  mutual  aids  of 
commerce,  by  the  fcnei-al  intercourse  of  arts  and  letters,  by 
that  common  nature  of  which  we  all  participate  ? 

6  Again— I  must  have  food  and  clothing.  Without  a 
proper  gemal  warmth,  I  instantly  perish.  Am  I  not  related, 
in  this  view,  to  the  very  earth  itself;  to  the  distant  sun. 
from  whose  beams  I  derive  vigour?  to  that  stupendous 
course  and  order  of  the  infinite  host  of  hciven,  by  which  the 
times  and  seasons  ever  uniformly  pass  on  ? 

7  Were  this  order  once  confounded,  I  could  not  probably 
survive  a  moment ;  so  absolutely  do  I  depend  on  this  com- 
mon {general  welfare.  What,  then,  have  I  to  do,  but  to  en- 
large virtue  into  piety  ?  Not  only  honour  and  justice,  and 
what  I  owe  to  man^  is  my  interest;  but  gratitude  also,  acquies- 
cence, resignation,  adoration,  and  all  I  owe  to  this  great  poli- 
ty, and  its  great  Governour  our  common  Parent.      Harris. 

SECTION  III. 
The  injustice  of  an  uncharitable  spirit. 
A  SUSPICIOUS,  uncharitable  spirit,  is  not  only  incon- 
sistent with  all  social  virtue  and  happiness,  but  it  is  also, 
in  itself,  unreasonable  and  unjust.  In  order  to  form  sound 
opinions  concerning  characters  and  actions,  two  thmgs  are 
especially  requisite;  information  and  impartiality.  But  such 
as  are  most  forward  to  decide  unfavourably,  are  commonly 
destitute  of  both.  Instead  of  possessing,  or  even  requiring, 
full  information,  the  grounds  on  which  they  proceed  are 
frequently  the  most  slight  and  frivolous. 

2  A  tale,  perhaps,  which  the  idle  have  invented,  the  inquisi- 
tive have  listened  to,  and  tlie  credulous  have  propagated  ;  or 
a  real  incident,  which  rumour,  in  carrying  italong,  has  exag- 
gerated and  disguised,  supplies  them  with  materials  of  confi- 
dent assertion,  and  decisive  judgment.  From  an  action, 
they  presently  look  into  the  heart,  and  infer  the  motive.  This 
supposed  motive  they  conclude  to  be  the  ruling  principle 
and  pronounce  at  once  concerning  the  whole  character. 

3  Nothing  can  be  more  contrary  both  to  equity  and  to 
sound  reason,  than  this  precipitate  judgment.  Any  man  who 
attends  to  what  passes  within  himself,  may  easily  discern 
what  a  complicated  system  the  human  character  is ;  and 
what  a  variety  of  circumstances  must  be  taken 'into  the  ac- 
count, in  order  to  estimate  it  truly.  No  single  instance  of 
conduct,  whatever,  is  sufficient  to  determine  it. 


TO  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

4  As  from  one  worthy  action,  it  were  cre.-lulitj,  not  chari- 
ty, to  conclude  a  person  to  be  free  from  all  vice  ;  so  from  one 
which  is  censurable,  it  is  perfectly  unjust  to  infer  that  the 
author  of  it  is  without  conscience,  and  without  merit.  !fwe 
kncv7  all  the  attending-  circumstances,  it  might  appear  in  an 
excusable  light ;  nay,  perhaps,  under  a  commendable  form. 
The  motives  of  the  actor  may  have  been  entirely  different 
from  those  which  v/e  ascribe  to  him  ;  and  where  we  suppose 
him  impelled  by  bad  design,  he  may  have  been  prompted  by 
conscience,  and  mistaken  principle. 

5  Admitting  the  action  to  have  been  in  everj-  view  crimi- 
nal, he  may  have  been  hurried  into  it  through  inadvertency 
and  surprise.  He  may  have  sincerely  repented :  and  the 
virtuous  principle  may  have  now  regained  its  full  vigour. 
Perhaps  this  was  tlie  corner  of  frailty;  the  quarter  on  which 
he  lay  open  to  the  incursions  of  temptation  ;  v/hile  the  «//jcr 
avenues  of  his  heart  were  firmly  guarded  by  conscience. 

6  It  is  therefore  evident,  that  no  part  of  the  government 
of  temper,  deserves  attention  moie.  than  to  keep  cur  minds 
pure  from  uncharitable  prejudices,  and  open  to  candour  and 
humanity  in  judging  of  others.  The  worst  consequences, 
both  to  ourselves  and  to  society,  follow  from  the  opposite 
spirit.  BLAiBL 

SECTION  IV. 

The  misfortunes  of  men  mostly  chargeable  on  themselves. 

WE  find  man  placed  in  a  world,  where  he  has  by  no 
means  the  disposal  of  the  events  that  happen.  Calamities 
sometimes  befall  the  worthiest  and  the  best,  which  it  is  not 
in  their  power  to  prevent,  and  where  nothing  is  left  them, 
but  to  acknowledge,  and  to  submit  to  the  high  hand  of  Hea- 
ven. For  such  visitations  of  trial,  many  good  and  wise  rea- 
sons, can  be  assigned,  which  the  present  subject  leads  me 
not  to  discuss. 

2  But  though  those  unavoidable  calamities  make  a  part, 
j-et,  they  make  not  the  cA/(?/"part,  of  the  vexations  and  sor- 
rows that  distress  human  life.  A  multitude  of  evils  beset  us, 
for  the  source  of  which,  we  must  look  to  another  quarter — 
No  sooner  has  any  thing  in  the  health,  cr  in  the  circumstan- 
ces of  men,  gone  cross  to  their  wish,  than  they  begin  to  taib 
of  the  unequal  distribution  of  the  good  things  of  this  life; 
they  envy  the  condition  ofotliers  ;  tlicy  repine  at  their  own 
lot,  and  fret  against  the  F.uler  of  the  world. 

3  Full  of  these  sentiments,  one  man  pines  under  a  broken 
constitution.     But  let  us  ask  him,  whet'icr  he  can,  fairiy  and 


^ap   i.  Argumentative  Pieces.  ^\ 

hoDCstl^,  assjg^n  no  cause  for  this,  but  the  unknown  decree  o\ 
heaven?  Has  lie  duly  valued  the  blessing-  of  health,  and  al- 
ways observed  the  rules  of  virtue  and  sobriety  r  Has  he 
been  moderate  in  his  life, and  temperate  in  all  his  pleasures? 
If  now  he  is  onlj-  pacing  the  price  of  his  former,  perhaps  his 
forgotten  indulg-ences,  has  he  any  title  to  complain,  as  if  he 
were  suffering-  unjustly  ? 

4  ^Vere  we  lo  survey  the  chambers  of  sickness  and  dis- 
tress, we  sliould  often  find  them  peopled  with  the  victims  of 
intemperance  and  sensuality,  and  with  the  children  of  vicious 
indolence  and  sloth.  Among-  the  thousands  who  languish 
there,  we  should  find  the  proportion  of  innocent  sufi'erers  to 
be  small.  We  should  see  faded  youtli,  premature  old  age, 
and  the  prospect  of  an  untimely  grave,  to  be  the  portion  of 
multitudes,  r.ho,  in  one  way  or  other,  have  brought  those 
evils  on  themselves  ;  while  yet  these  martjTs  of  vice  and 
folly,  have  the  assurance  to  arraign  the  hard  fate  of  man, 
and  to  "  fret  against  the  Lord." 

5  But  you,  perhaps  complain  of  hardships  of  another  kind; 
of  the  injustice  of  the  world  ;  of  the  poverty  which  you  suf- 
fer, and  the  discouragements  under  which  you  labour ;  of 
the  crosses  and  disappointments,  of  which  j-our  life  has  been 
doomed  to  be  full. — Before  you  give  too  much  scope  to  your 
discontent,  let  me  desire  you  to  reflect  impartially  upon 
your  past  train  of  life. 

6  Have  not  sloth,  or  pride,  ill  temper,  or  sinful  passions, 
misled  you  often  from  the  path  of  sound  and  wise  conduct  ? 
Have  you  not  been  wanting  to  yourselves  in  improving  those 
opportunities  wnich  Providence  offered  you,  for  bettering 
and  advancing  your  state  ?  If  you  have  chosen  to  indulge 
your  humour,  or  your  taste,  in  the  gi-atifications  of  indolence 
or  pleasure,  can  you  complain  because  others,  in  preference 
to  you,  have  obtainci  those  advantages  which  naturally  be- 
long to  useful  labours,  and  honourable  pursuits  ? 

7  Have  not  the  consequences  of  some  false  steps,  into 
which  your  passions  or  your  pleasures,  have  betrayed,you, 
pursued  you  through  much  of  your  life  ;  tainted,  perhaps, 
your  characters,  involved  you  in  embarrassments,  or  sunk 
you  in^o  neglect  ? — It  is  an  old  saying,  that  every  man  is 
the  artificer  of  his  own  fortune  in  the  world.  It  is  certain, 
that  the  world  seWom  turns  wholly  against  a  man,  unless 
through  his  own  fault.  '"Religion  is,"  in  general,  "profita- 
ble unto  all  things." 

8  Virtue,  d'ligence,  and  industry,  joined  with  good  tem- 
per and  prudence,  have  ever  been  found  the  surest  road  to 
prosperity  ;  and  where  men  fail  of  attaining  it,  their  wanto/ 


72  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

success  is  far  oftener  owing'  to  their  liavin^  deviated  from 
that  road,  than  to  their  havin<^  encountered  insuperable  bars 
in  it.  Some,  b}'  being-  too  artful,  forfeit  fne-  reputation  nt 
probity.  Some,  by  being-  too  open,  are  accounted  to  fail  -n 
prudence.  Others,  by  being  fickle  and  changeable,  ire 
distrusted  by  all. 

9  The  case  commonly  is,  that  men  seek  to  ascribe  their 
disappointments  to  any  cause,  rather  than  to  their  own  mis- 
conduct ;  and  when  they  can  devise  no  other  cause,  they  lav 
tliem  to  the  cliarge  of  Providence.  Their  folly  loads  Ihern 
into  vices  ;  their  vices  into  misfortunes  ;  and  in  Ihtir  mis- 
fortunes they  "  murmur  ag-ainst  Providence." 

10  They  are  doubly  unjust  towards  their  Creator.  In  their 
prosperity,  tliey  are  apt  to  ascribe  their  success  to  their  oivn 
diligence,  rather  than  to  his  blessing,  and  in  their  adversi- 
ty, they  impute  their  distresses  to  his  providence,  not  to 
their  own  misbehaviour.  Whereas,  the  truth  is  the  very 
reverse  of  this.  "  Every  good  and  every  perfect  gift,  cometh 
from  above ;"  and  of  evil  and  misery,  man  is  the  author  to 
himself. 

11  When,  from  the  condition  of  individuals,  we  look 
abroad  to  the  public  state  of  the  world,  we  meet  witli  more 
proofs  of  the  truth  of  this  assertion.  We  see  great  societie* 
of  men,  torn  in  pieces  by  intestine  dissentions,  tumults,  and 
civil  commotions.  We  see  mighty  armies  going  forth,  m 
formidable  array,  against  each  other,  to  cover  the  earth 
with  blood,  and  to  fill  the  air  with  the  cries  of  widows  and 
orphans.  Sad  evils  these  are,  to  which  this  miserable  world 
is  exposed. 

12  But  are  these  evils,  I  beseech  you,  to  be  imputed  to 
God  ?  Was  it  he  who  sent  forth  slaughtering  armies  into  the 
field,  or  who  filled  the  peaceful  city  with  massacres  and 
blood?  Are  these  miseries  any  other  than  the  bitter  fruit  of 
men's  violent  and  disorderly  passions  .'  Are  they  not  clearly 
to  be  traced  to  the  ambition  and  vices  of  princes,  to  the 
quarrels  of  the  great,  and  to  the  turbulence  of  the  people  ? — 
Let  us  lay  tliem  entirely  out  of  the  account,  in  thinking  of 
Providence,  and  let  us  think  only  of  the  "  foolishness  of 
man." 

13  Did  man  controul  his  passions,  and  form  his  conduct 
according  to  the  dictates  of  wisdom,  humanity,  and  virtue, 
the  earth  would  no  longer  be  desolated  by  cruelty,  and  hu- 
man societies  would  live  in  order,  harmony,  and  peace.  In 
those  scenes  of  mischief,  and  violence  which  fill  the  world, 
let  man  behold  with  shame,  the  picture  o*"  his  vices,  his  ig- 
norance, and  folly.    Let  him  be  humbled  by  the  mortifying 


Chap.  4.  Argumentative  Pieces.  73 

view  of  his  own  perverseness ;  but  let  not  his  "  heart  fret 

against  the  Lord.  blair 

SECTION  V. 

On  disinter esled friendship. 

1  AM  informed  that  certain  Greek  writers,  (philosophers, 
it  seems,  in  the  opinion  of  their  countrymen,)  have  advanced 
some  very  extraordinary  positions  relating  to  friendship ; 
as,  indeed,  what  subject  is  there,  which  these  subtle  geniuses 
have  not  tortured  with  their  sophistry  ? 

2  The  authors  to  whom  I  refer,  dissuade  their  disciples 
from  entering  into  any  strong  attachments,  as  unavoidably 
creating  supernumeraiy  disquietudes  to  those  who  engage  in 
them ;  and,  as  every  man  has  more  than  sufficient  to  call 
forth  his  solicitude,  in  the  course  of  his  men  affairs,  it  is  a 
weakness,  they  contend,  anxiously  to  involve  himself  in  the 
concerns  o(  others. 

3  They  recommend  it  also,  in  all  connexions  of  this  kind, 
to  hold  the  bands  of  union  extremely  loose,  so  as  always  to 
have  it  in  one's  power  to  straiten  or  relax  them,  as  circum- 
stances and  situations  shall  render  most  expedient.  They 
add,  as  a  capital  article  of  their  doctrine,  that,  "  to  live  ex- 
empt from  cares,  is  an  essential  ingredient  to  constitute  hu- 
man happiness :  but  an  ingredient,  however,  which  he,  who 
voluntarily  distresses  himself  with  cares,  in  which  he  has 
no  necessary  and  personal  interest,  must  never  hope  to 
possess."  , 

4  I  have  been  told  likewise,  that  there  is  another  set  of 
pretended  philosophers,  of  the  same  country,  who?e  tenets, 
concerning  this  suliject,  are  of  a  still  more  illiberal  and  un- 
generous cast.  The  proposition  which  they  attempt  to  esta- 
blish, is,  that  "friendship  is  an  affair  of  *e//'-m<ere*<  entirely ; 
and  that  the  proper  motive  for  engaging  in  it,  is.  not  in  order 
to  gratify  the  kind  and  benevolent  affections, but  for  the  bene- 
fit of  that  assistance  and  support,  which  are  to  be  derived 
from  the  connexion." 

5  A<xordingly  they  assert,  that  those  persons  are  most 
disposed  to  have  recourse  to  auxiliary  alliances  of  this  kind, 
who  are  least  qualified  by  nature  or  fortune,  to  depend  ufion 
their  own  strength  and  powers  :  the  weaker  ser,  for  instance, 
being  generally  more  inclined  to  engage  in  friendships,  than 
the  mile  part  of  our  species ;  and  those  who  are  depressed 
by  indigence,  or  labouring  under  misfortunes,  than  tlic 
wealt'iy,  and  the  prosperous. 

6  Excellent  and  obliging  sages,  these,  undoubtedly  I  To 
strike  out  the  friendly  affections  from  the  moral  world,  would 

G 


74  Tlie  Enghih  Render.  Part  » 

be  like  exting'uishin?  the  sun  in  the  natural,  each  of  them 
beiti^  the  source  of  tlie  best  and  most  grateful  satisfactions, 
that  Heaven  has  conferred  on  the  sons  of  men.  liut  1  should 
be  g-lad  to  know,  what  the  real  value  of  this  boasted  exemp- 
tion from  care,  which  they  promise  their  disciples,  justly 
amounts  tor  an  exemption  flattering  to  self-love,  I  confess: 
but  wliich,  upon  many  occurrences  in  human  life,  should  be 
rejected  with  the  utmost  disdain. 

7  For  nothing,  surely,  can  be  more  inconsistent  with  a 
well-poised  and  manly  spirit,  than  to  decline  engaging  in  any 
laudable  action,  or  to  be  discouraged  from  persevering  in  it, 
by  an  apprehension  of  the  trouble  and  solicitude,  with  wliich 
It  may  probably  be  attended. 

8  Virtue  herself,  mdeed,  ought  to  be  totally  renounced,  it 
it  be  right  to  avoid  every  possible  means  that  may  be  produc- 
tive of  uneasiness :  for  who,  that  is  actuated  by  her  princi- 
ples, can  observe  the  conduct  of  an  opposite  character,  witl»- 
out  being  affected  with  some  degree  of  secret  dissatisfaction . 

9  Are  not  the  just,  the  brave,  and  the  good,  necessarily 
exposed  to  the  disagreeable  emotions  of  dislike  and  aversion 
when  they  respectively  meet  with  instances  of  fraud,  of  cow- 
ardice, or  of  villany  ?  It  is  an  essential  property  of  every 
well  constituted  mind,  to  be  affected  with  pain  or  pleasure, 
according  to  the  nature  of  those  moral  appearances  lliat  pre- 
sent themselves  to  observation. 

JO  If  sensibility,  therefore,  be  not  incompatible  with  true 
wisdom,'(and  it  surely  is  not,  unless  we  suppose  that  philoso- 
phy deadens  everj'  finer  feeling  of  our  nature,)  what  just  rea- 
son can  be  assigned,  %vhy  the  sympathetic  sufferings  which 
may  result  from  friendship,  should  be  a  sufficient  inducement 
foi"  banishing  that  generous  affection  from  the  human  breast  ? 

II  Extinguish  all  emotions  of  tiie  heart,  and  what  differ- 
ence will  remain,  I  do  not  say  between  inan  and  hi~vte,  but 
between  man  and  a  mere  inanimate  clod}  Away  then  with 
those  austere  philosophers,  who  represent  virtue  as  hardening 
the  soul  against  all  the  softer  impressions  of  humanity  ! 

1'2  The  fact,  certainly,  is  much  otherwise.  A  truly  good 
man,  is,  upon  many  occasions,  extremely  susceptible  of  ten- 
der sentiments ;  and  his  heart  expands  with  joy  or  shrinks 
with  sorrow,  as  good  or  ill  fortune  accompanies  liis  friend. 
Upon  the  whole,  then,  it  maj'  fairly  be  concluded,  (hat,  as 
in  the  case  of  virtue,  so  in  that  of  friendship,  those  painful 
sensations  which  may  sometimes  be  produced  by  the  one,  as 
well  as  by  the  other,  are  equally  insiifficicnt  grounds  for  ex- 
cluding either  oi  them  from  taking  possession  of  our  bosoms. 

J3.  They  who  insist  tliat "  utility  is  the  first  and  prevailing 


Chap.  4.  Argumenlative  Pieces.  75 

motive,  wliicn  induces  mankind  to  enter  into  particular 
friendships,"  appear  to  me  to  divest  tiie  association  of  its  roost 
amiable  and  engaging;-  principle.  For  to  a  mind  rightly  dis- 
posed, it  is  not  so  much  the  henffits  received,  as  the  affec- 
tionate zeal  from  which  tliey  flow,  that  gives  them  their  best 
and  most  valuable  recommendation. 

14  It  is  so  far  indeed  from  being-  verified  by  fact,  that  a 
sense  of  our  wants,  is  tlie  original  cause  of  forming  these  ami- 
cable alliances  ;  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  observable,  that 
none  have  been  more  distinguished  in  their  friendsliips,  thau 
those  whose  power  and  opulence,  but,  above  all,  whose  supe- 
riour  virtue,  (amuch  firmer  support,)  have  raised  them  above 
every  necessity  of  having  recourse  to  the  assistance  of  others. 

15  The  true  distinction  then,  in  the  question,  is,  that  "  al- 
though friendship  is  certainly  productive  of  utility,  jet  utility 
is  not  the  primaty  motive  of  friendship."  Those  selfish  sen- 
sualists, therefore,  who,  lulled  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  presume 
to  maintain  the  reverse,  have  surely  no  claim  to  attention ; 
as  they  are  neither  qualified  by  reflection,  nor  experience, 
to  be  competent  judges  of  the  subject. 

16  Is  there  a  man  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  who  would 
deliberately  accept  of  all  the  Avealth,  which  this  world  can 
bestow,  if  offered  to  liim  upon  the  severe  terms  of  his  being 
unconnected  with  a  single  mortal  whom  he  could  love,  or  by 
whom  he  should  be  beloved  ?  This  would  be  to  lead  the 
wretched  life  of  a  detested  tyrant,  who  amidst  perpetual 
suspicions  and  alarms,  passes  his  miserable  days,  a  stranger 
tc  every  tender  sentiment  ;  and  utterly  precluded  from  the 
heart-felt  satisfactions  of  friendship. 

MelmotK's  translation  of  Cicerd^s  Lcclius. 

SECTION  VI 

On  the  hnmortality  of  the  soul. 

1  WAS  yesterday  walking  alone,  in  one  of  my  friend's 
woods,  and  lost  myself  in  it  verj'  agreeably',  as  I  was  run- 
ning over,  in  my  mind,  the  several  arguments  that  establish 
this  great  point ;  wliich  is  the  basis  of  morality,  and  the 
source  of  all  the  pleasing  hopes  and  secret  joys,  that  caa 
arise  in  the  heart  of  a  reasonable  creature. 

2  I  considered  those  several  proofs  drawn — First,  from  the 
nature  of  the  soul  itsef  and  particula'^Iy  its  immateriality  ; 
which,  though  not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  eternity  of  its  du- 
ration, has,  I  think,  been  evinced  to  a'mosta  demonstration 

3  Secondly,  from  its  passions  and  sentiments  ;  as,  particu- 
larly, from  its  love  of  existence:  its  horror  of  annihilation  ; 
and  its  hopes  of  immortality ;  with  that  secret  satisfaction 


7G  The  English  Reader.  Pari  1. 

which  it  finds  in  the  practice  of  viWwe:  and  \h2k\.uneamness 
which  follows  upon  the  commission  of  rice. — Thirdly,  from 
the  mdure  of  the  Supreme  Being-,  whose  justice,  goodness, 
wisdom  and  veracity,  are  all  concerned  in  this  -point. 

4  Cut  among  these,  anl  alher  excellent  arguments  for  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  there  is  one  drawn  from  tlie  perpet 
ual  progress  of  the  soul  to  its  perfection,  without  a  possibili 
iy  of  ever  arriving  at  it ;  which  is  a  hint  that  I  do  not  remem- 
ber  to  have  seen  opened  and  improved  by  those  who  tiave 
written  on  this  subject,  though  it  seems  to  me  to  carr)'  a  very 
great  weight  with  it. 

3  How  can  it  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  man,  that  the  soul, 
which  is  capable  of  immense  perfections,  and  of  receiving 
new  improvements  to  all  eternity,  shall  fall  away  into  no- 
thing, almost  as  soon  as  it  is  created  ?  Are  such  abilities 
made  for  no  purpose  ?  A  brute  arrives  at  a  point  of  perfec- 
tion, that  he  can  never  pass :  in  a  few  years,  he  has  all  the 
endowments  he  is  capable  of ;  and  were  he  to  live  ten  thou- 
sand more,  would  be  the  same  thing  he  is  at  present. 

6  Were  a  human  soul  thus  at  a  stand  in  her  accomplish- 
ments ;  were  her  faculties  to  be  full  bloAvn,  and  incapable  of 
ferther  enlargements  ;  I  could  imagine  she  might  fall  away  m- 
sensi  bly,  and  drop  at  once  into  a  state  of  annihilation.  But  can 
Wrf  believe  a  thinking  being  that  is  in  a  perpetual  progress 
of  improvement,  and  travelling  on  from  perfection  to  perfec- 
tion, after  having  just  looked  abroad  into  the  works  of  her 
Creator,  and  made  a  few  discoveries  of  his  infinite  good- 
ness, wisdom  and  power,  must  perish  at  her  first  setting  out, 
and  in  the  very  beginning  of  her  inquiries  ? 

7  Man,  considered  only  in  his  present  state,  seems  sent 
into  the  world  merely  to  propagate  his  kind.  He  provides 
himself  with  a  successor,  and  immediately  quits  his  post  to 
make  room  for  him.  He  does  not  seem  born  to  enjot/  life, 
but  to  deliver  it  down  to  others.  This  is  not  surprising  to 
consider  in  animals,  which  are  formed  for  our  use  and  which 
can  finish  their  business  in  a  short  life. 

8  The  silk-worm  after  having  spun  her  task,  lays  her 
eggs  and  dies.  But  a  man  cannot  take  in  his  full  measure 
(if  knowledge,  has  not  time  to  subdue  his  passions,  establish 
his  soul  in  virtue,  and  come  up  to  the  perfection  of  his  na- 
ture, before  he  is  hurried  off  the  stage.  Would  an  infinitely 
wise  Being,  make  such  glorious  creatures  for  so  mean  a  pur- 
pose ?  Can  he  delight  in  the  production  of  such  abortive  in- 
telligences, such  short-lived  reasonable  beings?  Would  he 
give  us  talents  that  are  not  to  be  exerted?  capacities  thai 
are  never  to  be  gratified  ? 


Chap.  4.  Argumentathe  Pieces.  77 

9  How  can  we  find  that  wisdom  which  shines  through  all 
his  works,  in  llie  formation  of  man,  without  looking'  on  this 
world  as  only  a  nursery  for  the  next  ;  and  without  believing 
that  the  several  generations  of  rational  creatures,  which  rise 
up  and  disappear  in  such  quick  successions,  are  only  to  re- 
ceive their  first  rudiments  of  existence  here,  and  afterwards 
to  be  transplanted  iuto  a  more  friendly  chmate,  where  they 
may  spread  and  flourish  to  all  eternity  ? 

10  There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  more  pleasing  and  tri- 
umphant consideration  in  religion,  than  this  of  the  perpetuti 
progress,  which  the  soul  makes  towards  the  perfection  of  its 
nature,  without  ever  arriving  at  a  period  in  it.  To  look 
upon  the  soul  as  going  on  fror»  strength  to  strength  ;  to  con- 
sider that  she  is  to  shine  forever  witli  new  accessions  of  glory 
and  brighten  to  all  eternity  ;  that  she  will  be  still  adding 
virtue  to  virtue,  and  knowledge  to  knowlege ;  carries  in  it 
something  wonderfully  agreeable  to  that  ambition,  which  is 
natural  to  the  mind  of  man.  Nay,  it  must  be  a  prospect  plea- 
sing to  God  himseff,  to  see  his  creation  forever  beautifying 
in  his  eyes  ;  and  drawing  nearer  to  him,  by  greater  degrees 
of  resemblance. 

11  Methinks  this  single  consideration,  of  the  progress  of  a 
finite  spirit  to  perfection,  will  be  sufficient  to  extinguish  all 
envy  in  i/i/er/oMr  natures,  and  all  contempt  in  superiour.  That 
cherub,  which  now  appears  as  a  god  to  a  human  soul,  knows 
very  well  that  the  period  will  come  about  in  eternity,  when 
the  human  soul  shall  be  as  perfect  as  he  himself  n*jw  is  :  nay, 
when  she  shall  look  down  upon  that  degree  of  perfection,  as 
much  as  she  now  falls  short  of  it.  It  is  true,  the  higher  na- 
ture still  advances,  and  by  that  means  preserves  his  distance, 
and  superiority  in  the  scale  of  being ;  yet  he  knows  that, 
how  high  soever  the  station  is  of  which  he  stands  possessed 
at  present,  the  inferiour  nature  will,  at  length,  mount  up  to 
it,  and  shine  forth  in  the  same  degree  of  glory. 

12  With  what  astonishment  and  veneration,  may  we  look 
into  our  own  souls,  where  there  are  such  hidden  stores  of  vir- 
tue and  kbowledge,  such  inexhausted  sources  of  perfection  I 
We  knownot  yef  what  we*/ia//be;  nor  will  it  ever  enter  into 
the  heart  of  man,  to  conceJi'c  the  glory  that  will  be  always  in 
reserve  for  him.  The  soul,  considered  with  its  Creator,  is 
like  one  of  those  mathematical  lanes,  that  may  draw  nearer 
to  another  for  all  eternity,  without  a  possibility  of  touchmg 
it :  and  can  there  be  a  thought  so  transporting,  as  to  con- 
sider ouselves  in  these  perpetual  approaches  to  him,  who  is 
the  standard  not  only  of  perfection  but  of  happiness  ? 

G  2  ADDISOX, 


78  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

CHAP.  V.  ^ 

DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

The  Seasons. 
AMONG  the  great  blessing-s  and  wonders  of  tlie  creation, 
may  be  classed  the  regularities  of  times,  and  seasons.  Im- 
mediately after  the  flood,  the  sacred  promise  was  made  to 
man,  that  seed-time  and  harvest,  cold  and  heat,  summer 
and  winter,  da}^  and  night,  should  continue  to  the  very  end 
of  all  things.  Accordingly,  in  obedience  to  that  promise, 
the  rotation  is  constantly  presenting  us  with  some  useful  and 
agreeable  alteration  ;  and  all  the  pleasing  novelt}^  of  life, 
arises  from  these  natural  changes  ;  nor  are  we  less  indebted 
to  them  for  many  of  its  solid  comforts. 

2  It  has  been  frequently  the  task  of  (he  moralist  and  poet, 
to  mark,  in  polished  )ieriods,  the  particiilar  charms  and  con- 
veniences of  every  change  ;  and,  indeed,  such  discriminate 
observations  upon  natural  variety,  cannot  be  undeliglitful ; 
since  the  blessing  wiiicheveiy  month  brings  along  with  it,  is 
a  fresh  instance  of  the  wisdom  and  bounty  of  tjia..  Providence, 
which  regulates  the  glories  of  the  year.  We  glow  as  we  con- 
template :  we  feel  a  propensity  to  adcre,  whilst  we  enjoy. 

3  In  the  time  of  seed-sowing,  it  is  the  season  of  ronfi- 
dence:  the  grain  which  the  husbandmp.n  trusts  to  the  bosom 
of  tlie  earth,  shall,  haply,  yield  its  seven-fold  rewards. 
Spring  presents  us  with  a  scene  of  lively  expectation.  That 
which  was  before  sown,  begins  now  to  discover  signs  of  suc- 
cessful vegetation.  The  labourer  observes  the  change,  and 
anticipates  the  harvest ;  he  watches  the  progress  of  nature, 
and  smiles  ar  her  influence  :  while  the  man  of  contempla- 
tion, walks  forth  with  the  evening,  amidst  the  fragrance  of 
flowers,  and  promises  of  plenty  ;  nor  returns  to  his  cottage 
till  dai'kness  closes  the  scene  upon  his  eye.  Then  cometh 
tlie  harvest,  when  the  large  wish  is  satisfied,  and  the  grana- 
ries of  nature,  are  loaded  with  the  means  of  life,  even  to  a 
luxury  of  abundance. 

4  The  powers  of  language  are  unequal  to  the  description 
of  this  happy  season.  It  is  the  carnival  of  nature  :  sun  and 
shade,  coolness  and  quietude,  cheerfulness  and  melody,  lovt 
and  gratitude,  unite  to  render  every  scene  of  summer  de- 
lightful. The  division  of  light  and  darkness  is  one  of  the 
kindest  efforts  of  Omnipotent  Wisdom.  Day  and  night 
yield  us  contrary  blessings  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  assist 
each  other,  by  giving  fresh  lustre  to  tlie  delights  of  both 


Chap.  5.  Descriptive  Pieces,  79 

Amidst  the  g-lare  of  day  and  bustle  of  life,  how  could  we 
sleep  ?  Amidst  the  gloom  of  darkness,  how  could  we  labour  ? 

5  How  wise,  how  benig-nant,  then,  is  the  proper  division  ! 
The  hours  of  light,  are  adapted  to  activity  ;  and  those  of 
darkness,  to  rest.  Ere  the  day  is  passed,  exercise  and  na- 
ture prepare  us  for  the  pillow,  and  by  the  time  that  tlie 
morning  returns,  we  are  again  able  to  meet  it  with  a  smile- 
Thus,  every  season  has  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself;  aud  evei'y 
moment  affords  some  interesting  innovation.  melmoth. 
SECTION  II. 
The  cataract  of  JTmgara^  in  Canada,  Jforth  America. 

THIS  amazing  fall  of  water,  is  made  by  the  river  St.  Law- 
rence, in  its  passage  from  lake  Erie  into  the  lake  Ontario. 
T  he  St.  Lawrence  is  one  of  the  largest  rivers  in  the  world, 
and  yet  the  whole  of  its  waters,  is  discharged  in  this  place, 
by  a  fall  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  perpendicular.  It  is 
not  easy  to  bring  the  imagination  to  correspond  to  the  great- 
>ess  of  the  scene. 

2  A  ri«er  extremely  deep  and  rapid,  and  that  serves  to 
<ram  the  waters  of  almost  all  North  America  into  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean,  is  here  poured  precipitately  down  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
that  rises,  like  a  wall,  across  the  whole  bed  of  its  stream, 
"he  river,  a  little  above,  is  near  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
broad;  and  the  rocks,  where  it  grows  narrower,  are  four 
hundred  yards  over. 

3  Their  direction  is  not  straight  across,  but  hollowing  in- 
wards like  a  horse-shoe:  so  that  the  cataract,  which  bends 
to  the  shape  of  the  obstacle,  rounding  inwards,  presents  a 
kind  of  tlieatre,  the  most  tremendous  in  nature.  Just  in 
the  middle  of  this  circular  wall  of  waters,  a  little  island,  that 
has  braved  the  fury  of  the  current,  presents  one  of  its  points, 
and  divides  the  stream  at  top  into  two  parts;  but  they  unite 
again  long  before  they  reach  the  bottom. 

4  The  noise  of  the  fall,  is  heard  at  the  distance  of  several 
leagues :  and  the  fury  of  the  waters,  at  the  termination  of 
tlieir  fall,  is  inconceivable.  The  dashing  produces  a  mist, 
that  rises  to  the  very  clouds;  and  which  forms  a  most  beau- 
tiful rainbow,  when  the  sun  shines.  It  will  be  readily  sup- 
posed, that  such  a  cataract  entirely  destroys  the  navigatioQ 
of  tlie  stream ;  and  yet  some  Indians,  in  their  canoes,  as  it 
is  said,  have  ventured  down  it  with  safety.*         goldsmith. 

*  Tli's  venturing  doion  in  safelv.  is  a  report,  Viearing  upon  lis  front  its 
own  refutation .  tliat  it  should  ever  have  found  a  place  in  the  brain  or  the 
book  of  the  elegant  historian,  isamatterofsuprise.  Canoes  and  othei  ves- 
sels, with  passengers,  are,  indeed,  sometimes  unfortunately  drawn  down 


90  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

SECTION  III. 

The  grotto  of  Antiparos. 

OF  all  the  subterraneous  caverns  now  known,  the  grotto 
of  Antiparos,  is  the  most  remarkable,  as  well  for  its  extent, 
as  for  the  beauty  of  its  sparr}"  incrustations.  This  celebra- 
ted cavern  was  first  explored  by  one  Magni,  an  Italian  tra 
veller,  about  one  hundred  years  ago,  at  Antiparos,  an  in- 
considerable island  of  the  Archipelago. 

2  "  Having-  been  informed,"  says  he,"  by  the  natives  of 
Paros,  that,  in  the  little  island  of  Antiparos,  which  lies  about 
two  miles  from  the  former,  a  gigantic  statue  was  to  be  seen 
at  the  mouth  of  a  cavern,  [in  that  place,)  it  was  resolved  tliat 
we  (the  French  consul  and  himself )  should  pay  it  a  visit,  lu 
pursuance  of  this  resolution,  after  we  had  landed  on  the  is- 
land, and  walked  about  four  miles  through  the  midst  of 
beautiful  plains,  and  sloping  woodlands,  we  at  length  came 
to  a  little  hill,  on  the  side  of  which  yawned  a  most  horrid 
cavern,  which,  by  its  gloom^  at  first,  struck  us  with  terror, 
and  almost  repressed  curiosity. 

3  Recovering  the  first  surprise,  however,  we  entered  bold- 
ly, and  had  not  proceeded  above  twenty^  paces,  when  the 
supposed  statue  of  the  giant,  presented  itself  to  our  view 
We  quickly  pcrcieved,  that  what  the  ignorant  natives  hao 
been  terrified  at  as  a  giant,  was  nothing  more  than  a  sparry 
concretion,  formed  by  the  water  dropping  from  tlie  roof  of 
the  cave,  and  by  degrees  hardening  into  a  figure,  which 
their  fears  had  formed  into  a  monster. 

4  Incited  by  this  extraordinary  appearance,  we  were  m- 
duced  to  proceed  still  further,  in  quest  of  new  adventures  in 
this  subterranean  abode.  As  we  proceeded,  new  wonders 
offered  themselves ;  the  spai-s,  formed  into  trees  and  shrubs, 
presented  a  kind  of  petrified  grove;  some  white,  some  green  ; 
and  all  receding  in  due  perspective.  They  struck  us  with  the 
more  amazement,  as  we  knew  them  to  be  mere  productions 
of  nature,  who,  hitherto  in  solitude,  had,  in  her  playful  mo- 
ments, dressed  the  scene,  as  if  for  her  own  amusement." 

5  "  We  had  as  yet  seen  but  a  few  of  the  wonders  of  the 
place ;  and  we  were  introduced  only  into  the  portico  of  tliis 
amazing  temple.  In  one  corner  of  this  half  illuminated  r"^- 
cess,  there  a))peared  an  opening  of  about  three  feet  wide, 
which  seemed  to  lead  to  a  place  totally  dark,  and  which  one 

tne  awful  declivity,  but  seldom  a  vestiiie  ofeitlier  iseveradeiivarcis  si;i>n. 
The  sturdy  mountain  oak,  and  the  towerhig  pine,  frequently  take  the 
desperate  leap,  and  for  ever  disappear.  Edit 


Chap.  5.  Descriptive  Ptecet.  81 

of  the  natives  assured  us  contained  nothing  more  than  a  re- 
servoir of  water.  Upon  this  information,  we  made  an  ex 
periment,  by  throwing  down  some  stones,  which  rumbling 
along  tlie  sides  of  the  descent  for  some  time,  the  sound  seem- 
ed at  last  quasVied  in  a  bed  of  water. 

6  In  order,  however,  to  be  moi'e  certain,  we  sent  in  a  Le- 
vantine mariner,  who,  by  the  promise  of  a  good  reward,  ven- 
tured, with  a  flambeau  in  his  hand,  into  this  narrow  aper- 
ture. After  continuing  within  it  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  he  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand,  some  beautiful  pie- 
ces of  white  spar,  which  art  could  neither  equal  nor  imitate. 
— Upon  being  informed  by  him  that  the  place  was  full  of 
these  beautiful  incrustations,  I  ventured  in  with  him,  about 
fifty  paces,  anxiously  and  cautiously  descending,  by  a  steep 
and  dangerous  way. 

7  Finding,  however,  that  we  came  to  a  precipice  which 
led  into  a  spacious  amphitheatre,  (if  I  may  so  call  it,)  still 
deeper  than  any  other  part,  we  returned,  and  being  provided 
with  a  ladder,  flambeau,  and  other  things  to  expedite  our 
descent,  our  whole  company,  man  by  man,  ventured  into 
vhe  same  opening  ;  and,  descending  one  after  another,  we 
at  last  saw  ourselves  all  together  in  the  most  magnificent 
part  of  the  cavern." 

SECTION  IV. 

The  grotto  of  Antiparos,  continued. 
"  OUR  candles  being  now  all  lighted  up,  and  the  whole 
place  completely  illuminated,  never  could  the  eye  be  pre- 
sented with  a  more  glittering  or  a  more  magnificent  scene. 
The  whole  roof  hung  with  solid  icicles,  tansparent  as  glass, 
yet  solid  as  marble.  The  eye  could  scarcely  reach  the  lofty 
and  noble  ceiling ;  the  sides  were  regularly  formed  with 
spars ;  and  the  whole  presented  the  idea  of  a  magnificent 
theatre,  illuminated  with  an  immense  profusion  of  lights. 

2  The  floor  consisted  of  solid  marble ;  and,  in  several  pla- 
ces, magnificent  columns,  thrones,  altars,  and  other  objects 
appeared,  as  if  nature  had  designed  to  mock  the  curiosities 
of  art.  Our  voices,  upon  speaking,  or  singing,  were  redou- 
bled to  an  astonishing  loudness ;  and  upon  tlie  firing  of  a  gun, 
the  noise  and  reverberations,  were  almost  deafening. 

3  In  the  midst  of  this  grand  amphitheatre,  rose  a  concretion 
of  about  fifteen  feet  high,  that,  in  some  measure,  resembled 
an  altar ;  from  which,  taking  the  hint,  we  caused  mass  to  be 
celebrated  there.  The  beatiful  columns  that  shot  up  round 
the  altar,  appeared  like  candlesticks;  andmany  other  natural 
objects,  represented  the  customary  ornaments  of  this  rite." 


82  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

4  "  Below  even  this  spacious  grotto,  there  seemed  another 
cavern ;  down  which  I  ventured  with  my  former  mariner, 
and  descended  about  fifty  paces  by  means  of  a  rope.  I  at 
last  arrived  at  a  small  spot  of  level  ground,  where  the  bot- 
tom a[)peared  different  fiom  that  of  the  amphitheatre,  being 
composed  of  soft  clay,  yielding  to  I  he  pressure,  and  into 
wliicl)  I  thrust  a  sticK  to  the  depth  of  six  feet,  in  this,  how- 
ever, as  above,  numbers  of  the  most  beautiful  crystals  were 
formed  ;  one  of  which,  in  particular,  resembled  a  table. 

5  Upon  our  egress  from  this  ama/.ing  cavern,  we  perceiv- 
ed a  Greek  inscription  upon  a  rock  at  the  mouth,  but  so 
obliterated  by  time,  that  we  could  not  read  it  distinctly.  It 
seemed  to  import  that  one  Antipater,  in  the  time  of  Alexan- 
der, had  come  hither  ;  but  whether  he  penetrated  into  the 
deptlis  of  tlie  cavern,  he  does  not  think  fit  to  inform  us." — 
This  account  of  so  beautiful  and  striking  a  scene,  may  serve 
to  give  us  some  idea  of  the  subterraneous  wonders  of  nature. 

golhsmith. 

SECTION  V. 

Earthquake  at  Cutanea. 
ONE  of  the  earthquakes  most  particularly  described  in  his- 
tory, is  that  which  happened  in  the  year  1693  ;  (he  dama- 
ges of  which,  were  chiefly  felt  in  Sicily,  but  its  motion  was 
perceived  in  Germany,  France,  and  England.  It  extend- 
ed to  a  circumference  of  two  thousand  six  liundred  leagues; 
chiefly  affecting  the  sea  coasts,  and  great  rivers  ;  more  per- 
ceivable also  upon  the  mountains,  than  in  the  vaUeys. 

2  Its  motions  were  so  rapid,  that  persons  who  lay  at  their 
length,  were  tossed  from  side  to  side,  as  upon  a  rolling  bil- 
low. The  walls  were  dashed  from  their  foundations;  and  no 
fewer  than  Jifty-foitr  cities,  with  an  incredible  number  of  vil- 
lages, were  either  destroyed  or  greatly  damaged.  The  city 
of  Catanea,  in  particular,  was  utterly  overthrown.  A  travel- 
ler who  was  on  his  way  thither,  perceived,  at  the  distance 
of  some  miles,  ablack  cloud,  like  night,  hanging  over  the  place. 

3  The  sea,  all  of  a  sudden,  began  to  roar  ;  mount  ^tna, 
to  send  forth  great  spires  of  flame;  and  ^oon  after  a  shocK 
ensued,  with  a  noise  as  if  all  the  artillerj'  in  the  icnrfd  had 
been  at  once  discharged.  Our  traveller  being  obliged  to 
alight  instantly,  felt  himself  raised  a  foot  from  the  ground ; 
and  turning  his  eyes  to  the  city,  he  with  amazement  saw 
nothing  but  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  in  the  air. 

4  The  birds  flew  about  astonished  ;  the  sun  was  darkened  ; 
the  beasts  ran  howling  from  the  hills ;  and  although  the 
shock  did  not  continue  above  three  minutes,  yet  near  nine- 


Chap.  5.  Descriptive  Pieces.  83 

teen  thousand  of  the  inhabitants  of  Sicily,  perished  in  tJie 
ruins.  C'atanea,  to  wliich  city  the  describer  was  travelling, 
seemed  the  principal  scene  of  ruin  ;  its  place  only  was  to  he 
found,  and  not  a  footstep  of  its  former  magnificence,  was  to 
be  seen  remaining.  goldsmith. 

SECTION  VI. 
Creation. 
IN  the  progress  of  the  Divine  works  and  government, 
there  arrived  a  period,  in  which  this  earth,  was  to  be  called 
into  existf^nce.  When  the  signal  moment,  predestinated 
from  all  eternity,  was  come,  the  Deity  arose  in  his  might, 
and,  with  a  word,  created  the  world. — What  an  illustrious 
moment  was  that,  when,  from  non-existence,  there  sprang 
at  once  into  being,  this  mighty  globe,  on  which  so  many 
millions  of  creatures  now  dwell  I 

2  No  preparatory  measures,  were  required.  No  long 
circuit  of  means,  was  emplojed.  "  He  spake,  and  it  was 
done  :  he  commanded;  and  it  stood  fast.  The  earth  was  at 
^rst  vvitliout  form,  and  void ;  and  darkness  was  on  the 
face  of  the  deep."  The  Almighty  surveyed  the  dark  abyss ; 
and  fixed  bounds  to  the  several  divisions  of  nature.  He 
said,  "  Let  there  be  light ;  and  there  was  light." 

3  Then  appeared  the  sea,  and  the  dry  land.  The  moun- 
tains rose,  and  the  rivers  flowed.  The  sun.  and  moon,  be- 
gan their  course  in  the  skies.  Herbs  and  plants  clothed  the 
ground.  The  air,  the  earth,  and  the  waters,  were  stored 
with  their  respective  inhabitants.  At  last,  man  was  made 
after  the  image  of  God. 

4  He  appeared,  walking  with  countenance  erect,  and  re- 
ceived his  Creator's  benediction,  as  the  lord  of  this  new  world. 
The  Almighty  beheld  his  work  when  it  was  finished,  and 
pronounced  it  good.  Superiour  beings  saw,  with  wonder,  this 
new  accession  to  existence.  "  The  morning  stars  sang  to- 
gether, and  all  the  sons  of  God.  shouted  for  joy."        elair. 

SECTION  VII. 

Charity. 
CHARITY  is  the  same  with  benevolence  or  love  ;  and 
is  the  term  uniformly  employed  in  the  New  Testament,  to 
denote  all  the  good  affections  which  we  ought  to  bear  towards 
one  another.  It  consists  not  in  speculative  ideas  of  general 
benevolence,  floating  in  the  head,  and  leaving  the  heart,  as 
.speculations  too  often  do,  untouched  and  cold.  Neitlier  is  it 
confined  to  that  indolent  good  nature,  which  makes  us  rest 
satisfied  with  being  free  from  inveterate  malice,  or   i'.-v/ill 


64  TJie  English  Render.  Pari  1. 

to  our  fellow -creatures,  without  prompting  us  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  any. 

2  True  charity,  is  an  active  principle.  It  is  not  properly 
a  sin^-Ie  virtue  ;  but  a  disposition  residing-  in  the  heart,  as  a 
fountain  whence  all  the  virtues  of  benig-nitj',  candour,  for- 
bearance, generosity,  compassion,  and  liberality,  flow,  as 
so  many  native  streams.  From  general  good-will  to  ail,  it 
extends  its  influence  particularly  to  those  with  whom  we 
stand  in  nearest  connexion,  and  who  are  directly  within  the 
sphere  of  our  good  offices. 

3  From  the  country  or  community  to  which  we  belong,  it 
descends  to  the  smaller  associations  of  neighbourhood,  i  ela- 
tions,  and  friends;  and  spreads  itself  over  the  whole  circle 
of  social  and  domestic  life.  I  mean  not  that  it  imports  a 
promiscuous  undistinguished  affection,  which  gives  every 
man  an  equal  title  to  our  love.  Charity,  if  we  should  en- 
deavour to  carry  it  so  far,  would  be  rendered  an  impractica- 
ble virtue  ;  and  would  resolve  itself  into  mere  words,  with- 
out affecting  the  heart. 

4  True  Charity  attempts  not  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  dis- 
tinction between  good  and  bad  men ;  nor  to  warm  our 
hearts  equally  to  those  who  befriend,  and  those  who  injur' 
us.  It  reserves  our  esteem  for  ^ood  men,  and  our  compla 
cency  for  our  friends.  Towards  our  enemies,  it  inspires  for 
giveness,  humanity,  and  a  solicitude  for  their  welfare,  li 
breathes  universal  candour,  and  liberality  of  sentiment.  It 
forms  gentleness  of  temper,  and  dictates  affability  of  manners. 

5  It  prompts  corresponding  sjnnpathies  with  them  who  re- 
joice, and  them  who  weep.  It  teaches  us  to  slight,  and  de- 
spise no  man.  Charity  is  the  comforter  of  the  afflicted,  the 
protector  of  the  oppressed,  the  reconciler  of  differences,  the 
mtercessor  for  offenders.  It  is  faithfulness  in  the  friend, 
public  spirit  in  the  magistrate,  equity  and  patience  in  the 
judge,  moderation  in  the  sovereign,  and  loyalty  in  the  subject. 

6  In  parents,  it  is  care  and  attention ;  in  children,  it  is 
reverence  and  submission.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  soul  of  so- 
cial life.  It  is  tne  -mn  that  enlivens  and  cheers  the  abodes  of 
men.  It  is  "  like  the  dew  of  llermon,"  says  the  Psalmist, 
"  and  the  dew  that  descended  on  the  mountains  of  Zion, 
where  the  Lord  commanded  the  blessing,  even  life  for  ever- 
more." BLAIR. 

SECTION  YIII. 

Prosperity  is  redonlled  to  a  good  ynan. 
NONE  but  the  temperate,  the  rr-srular,  and  the  virtuous, 
know   how  to  enjoy  prosperity.      They   bring  to  its  com 


>7 


Chap.  5.   -/  Descriptive  Pieces.  85 

forts  the  manly  relisli  of  a  sound  uncorrupted  mind.  They 
stop  at  the  proper  point,  before  enjoyment  degenerates  ijito 
disgust,  and  pleasure  is  converted  into  pain.  They  are 
strangers  to  those  complaints  which  flow  from  spleen,  caprice, 
and  all  the  fantastical  distresses  of  a  vitiated  mind,  while 
riotous  indulgence,  enervates  both  the  body  and  tlie  mind, 
purity  and  virtue,  heighten  all  the  powers  of  human  fruition. 

2  Feeble  are  all  pleasures  in  which  the  hpart  has  no  share. 
The  selfish  gratifications  of  the  bad,  are  both  iiarrow  in  their 
circle,  and  short  in  their  duration.  But  prosperity  is  redou- 
bled to  a  good  man,  by  his  generous  use  of  it.  It  is  reflec- 
ted back  upon  him  from  every  one  whom  he  makes  happy. 
In  the  intercourse  of  domestic  affection,  in  the  attachment  of 
friends,  the  gratitude  of  dependants,  the  esteem  and  good 
will  of  all  who  know  him,  he  sees  blessings  multiplied  on 
every  side. 

3  When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me ;  and  when 
the  eye  saw  me,  it  gave  witness  to  me :  because  I  delivered 
the  poor  that  cried,  the  fatherless,  and  him  that  had  none  to 
help  him.  The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came 
upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  with  jo}'.  I 
was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was  I  to  the  lame :  I  was  a 
father  to  the  poor ;  and  the  cause  which  I  knew  not,  I  search- 
ed out." 

4  Thus,  while  the  righteous  man  flourishes  like  a  tree 
planted  by  the  rivers  of  water,  he  brings  forth  also  his  fruit 
in  its  season :  and  that  fruit  he  brings  forth,  not  for  himself 
alone.  He  flourishes,  not  like  a  tree  in  some  solitary  desert, 
which  scatters  its  blossoms  to  the  wind,  and  communicates 
neither  fruit  nor  shade  to  any  living  thing :  but  like  a  tree  in 
the  midst  of  an  inhabited  country,  which  to  some  affords 
friendly  shelter,  to  oiAers  fruit ;  which  is  not  only  admired 
by  all  for  its  beauty;  but  blessed  by  the  traveller  for  the  shade, 
and  by  tlie  hungry  for  the  sustenance  it  hath  given. 

BLAIR. 

SECTION  IX. 

On,  the  beauties  of  the  Psalms. 
GREATNESS  confers  no  exemption  from  the  cares  and 
sorrows  of  life ;  its  share  of  them,  frequently  bears  a  me- 
lancholy proportion  to  its  exaltation.  This  the  niouarch  of 
Israel  experienced.  He  sought  in  piety,  that  peace  ^vhich 
be  could  not  find  in  empire;  and  alleviated  the  disquietudes 
of  state,  with  the  exercises  of  devotion.  His  invaluable 
Psalms,  convey  those  comforts  to  others,  which  Jiey  afforded 
to  himself.  H 


86  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

2  Composed  ui)ori  particular  occnsioni,^  yet  designed  for 
general  i/.se ;  delivered  out  as  services  for  Israelites  under  the 
/>! KJ,  yet  DO  less  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of  C/ir)i'</a7w  un- 
der the  Gospel ;  (hey  present  relig-ion  to  us  in  the  most  enga- 
ging  dress;  communicating  truths  wh\ch philosophy  could  ne- 
ver investigate,  in  a  style  wliichpodry  can  never  equal;  while 
history  is  made  the  vehicle  of  prophecy,  and  creation  lends  all 
its  charms  to  pnint  the  glories  of  redemption. 

3  Calculated  alike  to  profit  and  to  please,  they  inform  the 
understanding,  elevate  the  affections,  and  entertain  the  im- 
agination. Indited  under  the  influence  of  him,  to  whom  all 
hearts  are  known,  and  all  "events  foreknown,  they  suit  man- 
kind in  all  situations;  grateful  as  the  manna  which  descended 
from  above,  and  conformed  itself  to  every  palate. 

4  The  fairest  productions  of  human  wit,  after  a  few  peru- 
sals, like  gathered  flowers,  wither  in  our  hands,  and  lose  their 
fragrancy :  but  these  unfading  plants  of  paradise,  become,  as 
we  are  accustomed  to  them,  still  more  and  more  beautiful ; 
their  bloom  appears  to  be  daily  heightened  ;  fresh  odours  are 
emitted,  and  new  sweets  extracted  from  them.  He  who  has 
once  tasted  their  excellences,  will  desire  to  taste  them  again  ; 
and  he  who  tastes  them  oftenest,  will  relish  them  best. 

5  And  now,  could  the  author  flatter  himself,  that  any  one 
would  take  half  the  pleasure  in  reading  his  work,  which  he 
nas  taken  in  writing  it,  he  would  not  fear  the  loss  of  his  la- 
bour. The  employment  detached  him  from  the  bustle  and 
hurry  of  life,  the  din  of  politics,  and  the  noise  of  folly.  Vani- 
ty and  vexation,  flew  away  for  a  season;  care  and  disquie- 
tude came  not  near  his  dwelling.  He  arose,  fresh  as  the 
morning,  to  his  task ;  the  silence  of  the  night,  invited  him 
to  pursue  it;  and  he  can  truly  say,  that  food  and  rest,  were 
not  preferred  before  it. 

6  Every  psalm  improved  infinitely  upon  his  acquamtance 
with  it,  and  no  one  gave  hini  uneasiness  but  the  last :  for  then 
he  grieved  that  his  work  was  done.  Happier  hoTirs  than 
those  which  have  been  spent  in  these  meditations  on  the  songs 
of  Sion,  he  never  expects  to  see  in  this  world.  Very  pleas- 
antly did  the)'  pass ;  thej'  moved  smoothly  and  swiftly  along : 
for  when  thus  engaged,  he  counted  no  time.  They  are  gone ; 
but  they  have  left  a  relish  and  a  fragrance  upon  the  mind; 
and  the  remembrance  of  them  is  sweet.  horne. 

SECTION  X. 
Chur'nltr  o/"  Ai.frku,  king  r>f  England. 
THE  merit  of  this  prince,  both  in  private  and  public  life, 
may,  with  advantage,   be   set  in  opposition  to  that  ul  ai;y 


Chap.  5.  Descriptive  Pieces.  87 

monarch  or  citizen,whicli  the  annals  of  any  ag-e,  or  any  na- 
tion, can  present  to  us.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  be  the  com- 
plete model  of  that  perfect  character,  which,  under  the  de- 
nom.ination  of  a  sage  or  wise  juan,  the  philosophers  have 
been  fond  of  delineating,  rather  as  a  fiction  of  their  imagina- 
tion, than  in  hopes  of  ever  seeing  it  reduced  to  practice  :  so 
happily  were  all  his  virtues  tempered  together  ;  so  justly 
were  they  blended ;  and  so  powerfully  did  each  prevent  tl)e 
ofAer  from  exceeding  its  proper  bounds. 

2  He  knew  how  to  conciliate  the  most  enterprising  spiiit, 
with  the  coolest  moderation  ;  tlie  most  obstinate  persever- 
ance, with  the  easiest  flexibility  ;  the  most  severe  justice, 
with  the  greatest  lenity  ;  the  greatest  rigour  in  command, 
with  the  greatest  affability  of  deportment ;  the  highest  ca- 
pacity and  inclination  for  science,  with  the  most  shining  tal- 
ents for  action. 

3  Nature  also,  as  if  desirous  that  so  bright  a  production  of 
her  skill  should  be  set  in  the  fairest  light,  had  bestowed  on 
him  all  bodily  accomplishments  ;  vigour  of  limbs,  dignity 
of  shape  and  air,  and  a  pleasant,  engaging,  and  open  coun- 
tenance. Bj'  living  in  that  barbarous  age,  he  was  deprived 
of  historians  worthy  to  transmit  his  fame  to  posterity;  and 
we  wish  to  see  him  delineated  in  more  livelv  colours,  and 
with  more  particular  strokes,  that  we  might  at  leiist  perceive 
some  of  those  small  specks  and  blemishes,  from  which,  as  a 
man,  it  is  impossible  he  could  be  entirely  exempted. — hume 

SECTION  XL 

Character  o/"  Queen  Elizabeth. 

THEP.  E  are  few  personages  in  history,  who  have  been 
more  exposed  to  the  calumny  of  enemies,  and  the  adulation 
of  friends,  than  queen  Elizabeth  ;  and  yet  there  scarcely  is 
any,  whose  reputation  has  been  more  certainly  determined 
by  the  unanimous  consent  of  posterity.  The  unusual  length 
of  her  administration,  and  the  strong  features  of  her  chai-ac- 
ter,  were  able  to  overcome  all  prejudices  ;  and,  obliging  her 
detractors  to  abate  much  of  their  invectives,  and  horadniirers 
somewhat  of  their  panegyrics,  have,  at  last,  in  spite  of  politi- 
cal factions,  and  what  is  more,  of  religious  animosities,  pro- 
duced a  nal^orm  judgment  with  regard  to  her  conduct. 

2  Her  vigour,  her  constancy,  her  magnanimity,  her  pene- 
tration, vigilance,  and  address,  are  allowed  to  merit  the  high- 
est praises  ;  and  appear  not  to  have  been  surpassed  by  any 
person  who  ever  filled  a  throne  ;  a  conduct  less  rigorous, 
less  imperious,  more  sincere,  more  indulgent  to  her  people, 
would  have  been  requisite  to  form  upeifect  character.   By  the 


88  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

force  of  lier  mind,  she  controlled  all  her  more  active,  and 
stronger  qualities,  and  prevented  them  from  running  into 
excess. 

3  Her  heroism  was  exempted  from  all  temerity ;  her  fru- 
galit}',  from  avarice  ;  her  friendship,  from  partiality  ;  her 
enterprise,  from  tiirbulency  and  a  vain  ambition.  She  guard- 
ed not  herself,  with  equal  care,  or  equal  success,  from  less 
mfirmities;  the  rivalship  of  beauty,  the  desire  of  admiration, 
the  jealousy  of  love,  and  the  sallies  of  anger. 

4  Her  singular  talents  for  government,  were  founded 
equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity.  Endowed  with 
a  great  command  over  herself,  she  soon  obtained  an  uncop- 
trolled  ascendency  over  the  people.  Few  sovereigns  of 
England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  more  difficult  circum- 
stances ;  and  none  ever  conducted  the  government  with  so 
uniform  success  and  felicity. 

5  Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  toleration, 
the  true  secret  of  managing  religious  factions,  she  preserved 
her  people,  by  her  superiour  prudence,  from  those  confusions 
in  which  theological  controversy  had  involved  all  the  neigh- 
bouring nations ;  and  though  her  enemies  were  the  most 
powerful  princes  of  Europe,  the  most  active,  the  most  en- 
terprising, the  least  scrupulous,  she  was  able,  by  her  vigour, 
to  make  deep  impressions  on  their  state ;  her  own  greatness 
meanwhile  remaining  untouched  and  unimpaired. 

6  The  wise  ministers  and  brave  men  who  flourished  dur- 
ing her  reign,  share  the  praise  of  her  success  ;  but,  instead 
of  lessening  the  applause  due  to  her,  they  make  great  addi- 
tion to  it.  Tliej^  owed,  all  of  them,  their  advancement  to 
her  choice  ;  they  were  supported  by  her  constancy ;  and, 
with  all  their  ability,  the)"^  were  never  able  to  acquire  an  un- 
due ascendency  over  her. 

7  In  her  family,  in  her  court,  in  her  kingdom,  she  remain- 
ed equally  mistress.  The  force  of  the  tender  passions  wa« 
great  over  her,  but  the  force  of  her  mind  was  still  superiour ; 
and  the  combat  which  her  victory  visibly  cost  her,  serves 
only  to  display  the  firmness  of  her  resolution,  and  theioftiness 
of  her  ambitious  sentiments. 

8  The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted  the 
prejudices  both  of  faction  and  of  bigotry,  yet  lies  still  expos- 
ed to  another  prejudice,  which  is  more  durable,  because  more 
natural ;  and  which,  according  to  the  different  views  in 
which  we  survey  her,  is  capable  either  of  exalting  beyond 
measure,  or  diminishing  the  lustre  of  her  character.  This 
prejudice  is  founded  on  the  consideration  of  her  sex. 

9  When  we  contemplate  her  as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to 
be  struck  with  the  highest  admiration  of  her  qualities  and 


Chap.  5.  Descriptive  Pieces.  89 

extensive  capacity  ;  but  we  are  also  apt  to  require  some 
more  softness  of  disposition,  some  greater  lenity  of  temper, 
some  of  those  amiable  weaknesses  by  which  lier  sex  is  dis- 
tinguished. But  tlie  true  method  of  estimating  her  merit, 
is,  to  lay  aside  all  these  considerations,  and  to  consider  her 
merely  as  a  rational  being,  placed  in  authority,  and  intrust- 
ed with  the  government  of  mankind.  hume. 
SECTION  XII. 
The  slavery  of  vice. 
THE  slavery  produced  by  vice,  appears  in  the  depend- 
ence under  which  it  brings  the  sinner,  to  circumstances 
of  external  fortune.  One  of  the  favourite  characters  of  lib- 
ertj',  is  the  independence  it  bestows.  He  who  is  truly  a 
freeman,  is  above  all  servile  compliances,  and  abject  subjec- 
tion. He  is  able  to  rest  upon  himself;  and  while  he  regards 
hissujienours  with  proper  deference,  neither  debases  himself 
by  cringing  to  them,  nor  is  tempted  to  purchase  their  favour 
by  dishonourable  means.  But  the  sinner  has  forfeited  eveiy 
privilege  of  this  nature. 

2  His  passions  and  habits,  render  him  an  absolute  depend- 
ant on  the  world,  and  the  world's  favour  ;  on  the  uncertain 
goods  of  fortune,  and  the  fickle  humours  of  men.  For  it  is 
by  these  he  subsists,  and  among  these  his  happiness  is 
sought,  according  as  his  passions  determine  him  to  pursue 
pleasures,  riches,  or  preferments.  Having  no  fund  within 
himself  whence  to  draw  enjoyment,  his  only  resource  is  in 
things  without.  His  hopes  and  fears  all  hang  upon  the 
world.  He  partakes  in  all  its  vicissitudes  ;  and  is  shaken 
by  every  wind  of  fortune.  This  is  to  be,  in  the  strictest 
sense,  a  slave  to  the  world. 

3  Religion  and  virtue,  on  the  other  hand,  confer  on  the 
mind  principles  of  noble  independence.  "  The  upright  man 
is  satisfied  from  himself."  He  despises  not  the  advantages 
of  fortune,  but  he  centres  not  his  happiness  in  th<3ni.  With 
a  moderate  share  of  them,  he  can  be  contented  ;  and  con- 
tentment, is  felicity.  Happy  in  his  own  integrity,  conscious 
of  the  esteem  of  good  men,  reposing  firm  trust  in  the  provi- 
dence, and  the  promises  of  God,  he  is  exempted  from  servile 
dependence  on  other  things. 

4  He  can  wrap  himself  up  in  a  good  conscience,  and  look 
forward,  without  terror,  to  the  change  of  the  world.  Let 
all  things  fluctuate  around  him  as  they  please,  he  believes 
that,  by  the  Divine  ordination,  they  shall  be  made  to  work 
together  in  the  issue  for  h's  good  :  and  therefore,  having 
much  10  hope  from  God,  an.l  little  to  fear  from  the  world, 

li 


90  Tlie  English  Reader.  Pari  I. 

he  can  be  easy  m  every  stale.      One  who   possesses  within 
liirnself  such  an  establishment  of  mind,  is  truly  free. 

5  But  shall  I  call  that  man  free,  who  has  nothing-  that,  is  his 
own.  no  property  assured  ;  whose  very  heart  is  not  his  own, 
but  rendered  the  appendage  of  external  thing's,  and  the 
sport  of  fortune?  Is  tliat  man  free,  let  his  outward  condition 
be  ever  so  splendid,  whom  his  imperious  passions,  detain  at 
their  call,  whom  they  send  forth  at  their  pleasure,  to  drudge 
and  toil,  and  to  beg  his  only  enjoyment  from  the  casualties 
of  the  world  .' 

6  Is  he  free,  who  must  flatter  and  lie  to  compass  his  ends ; 
who  must  boar  with  this  man's  caprice,  and  that  man's  scorn; 
must  profess  friendship  where  he  hates,  and  respect  where 
he  contemns  ;  who  is  not  at  liberty  to  appear  in  his  own 
colours,  nor  to  speak  his  own  sentiments ;  who  dares  not  be 
honest,  lest  he  should  be  poor  ? 

7  Believe  it,  no  chains  bind  so  hard,  no  fetters  are  so 
lieavv,  as  those  which  fasten  tl»e  corrupted  heart  to  this 
treache'ous  world;  no  dependence  is  more  contemptible 
than  that  under  which  the  voluptuous,  the  covetous,  or  the 
ambitious  man,  lies  to  the  means  of  pleasure,  gain,  or  pow- 
er. Yet  this  is  tlie  bo  isted  liberty,  which  vice  promises,  as 
ihe  recompense  of  setting  us  free  from  the  salutary  restraints 
of  virtue.  blair. 

SECTION  XIII. 

The  man  of  integrity. 
IT  will  not  take  much  time  to  dehneate  tlie  character  of 
the  man  of  integrity,  as  by  its  nature  it  is  a  plain  one,  and 
easily  understood.  He  is  one  who  makes  it  his  constant  rule 
to  follow  the  road  of  duty,  according  as  the  word  of  God, 
and  the  voice  of  his  conscience,  point  it  out  to  him.  He  is 
not  guided  merely  by  affections,  which  may  sometimes  give 
the  colour  of  virtue  to  a  loose  and  unstable  character. 

2  The  upright  man  is  guided  by  a  fixed  principle  of  mind, 
which  deteimines  h  m  to  esteem  nothing  but  what  is  honour- 
able; and  to  abhor  whatever  is  base  or  unworthy,  in  mora) 
conduct.  Hence  we  find  him  ever  the  same ;  at  all  times,  the 
trusty  friend,  the  affectionate  relation,  the  conscientious  man 
of  business,  the  pious  worshipper,  the  public  spirited  citizen. 

3  He  assumes  no  borrowed  appearance.  He  seeks  no 
mask  to  cover  him  ;  for  he  acts  no  studied  part  ;  but  he  is 
indeed  what  he  appears  to  be,  full  of  truth,  candour  and  hu- 
manitv.  In  all  his  pursuits,  he  knows  no  path  but  the  fair 
and  direct  owe ;  and  would  much  rather  fail  of  success,  than 
attain  it  by  reproachful  means. 


Chap.  5.  Descnplive  Pieces.  91 

4  He  never  sliovvs  us  a  smiling  countenance,  wliiie  he  me- 
ditates evil  against  us  in  his  heart.  He  never  praises  us 
among  our  friends ;  and  then  joins  in  traducing  us  among  our 
enemies.  We  shall  never  tind  one  part  of  his  character  at 
variance  with  another.  In  his  manners,  lie  is  simple  and  unaf- 
fected ;  in  all  his  proceedings,  open  and  consistent. — blair. 

SECTION  XIV. 

Gentlaiess. 

I  BEGIN  with  distinguishing  true  gentleness  from  passive 
tameness  of  spirit,  and  from  unlimited  compliance  with  the 
manners  of  others.  That  passive  tameness  which  suhmits, 
without  opposition,  to  every  encroachment  of  the  violent  and 
assuming,  forms  no  part  of  christian  duty  ;  but,  on  tlie  con- 
trarj',  is  destructive  of  general  happiness  and  order.  That 
unlimited  complaisance,  which,  on  every  occasion,  falls  in 
witli  the  opinions  and  manners  of  others,  is  so  far  from  be- 
i)ifr  a  virtue,  that  it  is  itself  a  vice,  and  the  parent  of  many 
vfces. 

'I  1 1  overthrows  all  steadiness  of  principle  ;  and  produces 
that  sinful  conformity  with  the  world,  which  taints  the  whole 
character.  In  tlie  present  corrupled  state  of  hun)an  man- 
ners, always  to  assent,  and  to  comply,  is  the  very  worst  max- 
nn  we  can  adopt.  It  is  impossible  to  support  the  purity  and 
dignit}'  of  christian  morals,  without  opposing  the  world  on 
various  occasions,  even  though  we  should  stand  alone. 

3  That  gentleness  therefore  which  belongs  to  virtue,  is  to 
be  carefully  distinguished  ironi  the  mean  spirt  of  cowards, 
and  the  fawning  assent  of  sycophants.  It  renounces  no  just 
right  from  fear.  It  gives  up  no  important  truth  from  flattery. 
It  is  indeed  net  only  consistent  with  a  firm  mind,  but  it  ne- 
cessarily requires  a  manly  spirit,  and  a  fixed  principle,  in  or- 
der to  give  it  any  real  value.  Upon  this  solid  ground  only, 
the  polisn  of  gentleness  can  with  advantage  be  superinduced. 

4  It  stands  opposed,  not  to  the  most  determined  regard  for 
virtue  and  truth,  but  to  harshness  and  severity,  to  pride  and 
arrogance,  to  violence  and  oppression.  It  is  properly,  that 
pan  of  the  great  virtue  of  charity,  which  makes  us  unwilling 
to  give  pain  to  any  of  our  brethren.  Compassion  prompts  us 
to  relieve  their  wants.  Forbearance  prevents  us  from  re- 
taliating their  injuries.  Meekness  restrains  our  angry  pas- 
sions ;  candour,  our  severe  judgments. 

5  Gentleness  corrects  whatever  is  offensive  in  our  man- 
ners; and  by  a  constant  tram  of  humane  attentions,  studies 
to  alleviate  the  burden  of  common  misery.  Its  ofTice,  there- 
fore, is  extensive.     It  is  not,  like  some  other  virtues,  called 


W^ 


92  The  Engiisn  Reader.  Fart  1. 

forth  only  on  peculiar  emerg;encies;  but  it  is  continually  in 
action,  when  we  are  engag-ed  in  intercourse  with  men.  It 
ought  to  form  our  address,  to  regulate  our  speecli,  aud  to 
diffuse  itself  over  our  whole  behaviour. 

6  We  must  not,  Viowever,  confound  this  gentle  "wisdom 
which  is  from  above,"  with  that  artificial  courtes}-,  that  stu- 
died smoothness  of  manners,  which  is  learned  in  the  school 
of  the  world.  SuclLaccomplishments,  the  most  frivolous  and 
empty  may  possess.  Too  often  they  are  employed  by  the 
artful,  as  a  snare  ;  too  often  affected  by  the  hard  and  unfeel- 
ing, as  a  cover  to  the  baseness  of  their  minds.  We  cannot, 
at  the  same  time,  avoid  obsen'ing  the  homage,  which,  even 
in  such  instances,  the  world  is  constrained  to  pay  to  virtue. 

7  In  order  to  render  society  agreeable,  it  is  found  neces- 
sary to  assume  somewhat,  tliat  may  at  least  carry  its  appear- 
ance. Virtue  is  the  universal  charm.  Even  its  shadow  is 
courted,  when  the  substance  is  wanting.  The  imitation  of 
its  form  has  been  reduced  into  an  art ;  and  in  tfie  commerce 
of  life,  the  first  study  of  all  v/ho  would  either  gain  the  esteem, 
or  win  the  hearts  of  others,  is  to  learn  the  speech,  and  to 
adopt  the   manners,  of  candour,  gentleness,  and  humaL.t}'. 

8  But  that  gentleness  which  is  the  characteristic  of  a  good 
man,  has,  like  every  other  virtue,  its  seat  in  the  heart ;  ana 
let  me  add,  nothing  exc3j>t  what  flows  from  the  heart,  can 
render  even  external  manners  truly  pleasing.  For  no  as- 
sumed behaviour  can  at  all  times  hide  the  real  character. 
In  that  unaffected  civility  which  springs  from  a  gentle  nand, 
there  is  a  charm  inflnitely  more  poAverful,  tlian  in  all  the 
studied  manners  of  the  most  finished  courtier. 

9  True  gentleness  is  founded  on  a  sense  of  what  we  owe 
to  HIM  who  made  us,  and  to  the  common  nature  of  which  we 
all  share.  It  arises  from  reflections  on  our  own  failings  and 
wants  ;  and  from  just  views  of  the  condition,  and  tlie  duty 
of  man.  It  is  native  feeling,  heightened  and  improved  by 
principle.  It  is  the  heart  which  easily  relents ;  which  feels 
for  every  thing  that  is  human;  and  is  backward  and  slow 
to  inflict  the  least  wound. 

10  it  is  affable  in  its  dress,  and  mild  in  its  demeanour;  ever 
ready  to  oblige,  and  willing  to  be  obliged  by  others  ;  breath- 
ing habitual  Sindness  towards  friends,  courtesy  to  stran- 
gers, long-suffering  to  enemies.  It  exercises  authority  with 
moderation ;  administers  reproof  with  tenderness  ,  coiifere 
favours  with  ease  and  modesty.  It  is  unassuming  in  opinijn, 
and  temperate  in  zeal.  It  contends  not  eagerly  about  tri- 
fles; slow  to  contradict,  and  still  slower  to  blame;  but 
prompt  to  allay  dissention,  and  restore  peace. 


s 


Chap.  6.    mm  Pathetic  Pieces.  93 

11  Tt  neither  inteT-meddles  unnecessarily  with  the  afiairs, 
nor  pries  inquisitively  into  the  secrets  of  others.  It  delig-hts 
above  all  thing-s  to  alleviate  distress;  and,  if  it  cannot  dry 
up  the  falling-  tear,  to  sooth  at  least  the  gTieving-  heart. 
Where  it  has  not  the  power  of  being  useful,  it  is  never  bur- 
densome. It  sefks  to  please,  rather  than  to  shine  and  dazzle; 
and  conceals  with  care  that  superiority,  either  of  talents  or 
of  lank,  which  is  oppressive  to  those  who  are  beneath  it. 

12  In  a  word,  it  is  that  spirit,  and  that  tenor  of  manners, 
which  the  g'ospel  of  Christ  enjoins,  when  it  commands  us, 
"  to  bear  one  another's  burdens  ;  to  rejoice  wiih  those  who 
rejoice,  and  to  weep  with  those  who  weep;  to  please  every 
one  his  neighbour  for  his  good;  to  be  kind  and  tender-heart- 
ed ;  to  be  pitiful  and  courteous  ;  to  support  the  weak,  and  to 
be  patient  towards  all  men."  elair. 

I  

^M  CHAPTER  VI. 

Ta  PATHETIC  PIECES. 

W^  SECTION  I. 

Trial  and  execution  of  the  Earl  of  Strafford,  toko  fell  a 
sacrifice  to  the  violence  of  the  times,  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  First. 

THE  earl  of  Strafford  defended  himself  against  the  ac- 
cusations of  the  house  of  Commons,  witli  all  the  presence  of 
mind,  judgment,  and  sagacity,  that  could  be  expected  from 
innocence  and  ability.  His  children  were  placed  beside  him 
as  he  was  thus  defending  his  life,  and  the  cause  of  his  royal 
master.  After  he  had,  in  a  long  and  eloquent  speech,  de- 
livered without  premeditation,  confuted  all  the  accusations  oi 
his  enemies,  he  thus  drew  to  a  conclusion. 

2  *'  But,  my  lords,  I  have  troubled  you  too  long :  longer 
than  I  should"  have  done,  but  for  the  sake  of  these  dear 
pledges,  which  a  saint  in  heaven  has  left  me." — Upon  this 
he  paused ;  dropped  a  tear;  looked  upon  his  cliildren,  and  pro- 
ceeded.-— "  What  I  forfeit  for  myself,  is  a  trifle :  that  my  indis- 
cretions should  reach  my  posterity,  vrounds  me  to  tlie  heart. 

3  Pardon  my  infirmity. — Something  I  should  have  added, 
but  I  am  not  able  ;  and  therefore  I  let  it  pass.^  And  now,  my 
lords,  for  myself.  I  have  long  been  taught,  that  the  afflic- 
tions of  this  life,  are  overpaid  by  that  eternal  weight  of  glory, 
which  awaits  the  innocent.  And  so,  my  lords,  even  so,  with 
the  utmost  iranquillity,  I  subm.it  myself  to  your  judgment, 
\vhether  that  judgment  be  life  or  death :  not  my  will,  but 
ihinc.  O  God,  be  done  I" 

4  His  eloquence  and  innocence,  induced   those  judges  to 


^ 


94  Tke  English  Reader.         LA      Pari  \. 

pity,  who  were  the  most  zealous  to  conoemn  mm.  The 
(firig  himself  went  to  the  house  of  lords,  and  spoke  for  some 
time  in  his  defence  :  but  the  spirit  of  vungrance,  which  had 
been  chained  for  eleven  years,  was  now  roused;  and  nothing 
but  his  blood  could  give  the  people  satisfaction.  He  was 
condemned  by  both  houses  of  parliament-  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  for  the  king  to  give  his  consent  to  the  bill  of  at- 
tainder. 

5  But  in  the  present  commotions,  the  consent  of  the  king, 
would  very  easily  be  dispensed  with ;  and  imminent  danger 
might  attend  his  refusal.  Charles,  however,  who  loved 
Strafford  tenderly,  hesitated,  and  seemed  reluctant;  trying 
every  expedient  to  put  off  so  dreadful  an  otBce,  as  that  of 
signing  the  warrant  for  his  execution.  While  he  continued 
in  tliis  agitation  of  mind,  and  stale  of  suspense,  his  doubts 
were  at  last  silenced  by  an  act  of  great  magnanimity  in  the 
condemned  lord.  Mft 

6  He  received  a  letter  from  that  unfortunate  noHBlan, 
desiring  that  his  life  might  be  made  a  sacrifice  to  oiB^  re- 
conciliation between  the  king  and  his  people :  adMlf^hat 
lie  was  prepared  to  die  ;  and  that  to  a  willing  mind,  there 
could  be  no  injury.  This  instance  of  noble  generosity,  was 
but  ill  repaid  by  his  master,  who  complied  with  his  request 
He  consented  to  sign  the  fetal  bill  by  commission  ;  and  Straf- 
ford was  beheaded  on  Tower-hill ;  behaving  with  all  thai 
composed  dignity  of  resolution,  which  was  expected  from  his 
character.  '     '-.  golosmith. 

SECTIOIN  H. 
An  eminent  instance  of  true  fortitude. 

ALL  who  have  been  distinguished  as  servants  of  God,  or 
benefactors  of  men ;  all  who,  in  perilous  situations,  have 
acted  their  part  with  such  honour  as  to  render  their  names 
illustrious  through  succeeding  ages,  have  been  eminent  for 
fortitude  of  mind.  Of  this  we  have  one  conspicuous  example 
in  the  apostle  Paul,  whom  it  will  be  instructive  for  us  to 
riew  in  a  remarkable  occurrence  of  his  life. 

2  After  having  long  acted  as  the  apostle  of  the  Gentiles, 
his  mission  called  him  to  go  to  Jerusalem,  where  he  knew 
(hat  he  was  to  encounter  the  utmost  violence  of  his  enemies. 
Just  before  he  set  sail,  he  called  togetlier  the  elders  of  his 
favourite  church  at  Ephesus,  and,  m  a  pathetic  speech, 
which  does  great  honour  to  his  character,  gave  them  his  last 
farewell.  Deeply  affected  by  their  knowledge  of  the  certain 
dangers  to  which  he  was  exposing  himself,  all  the  assembly 
were  filled  with  distress,  and  melted  into  tears. 


Ch^ip.  6.  Pathetic  Pieces.  96 

3  The  ciicumstances  were  such,  as  might  have  conve)'Gd 
dejection  even  into  a  resolute  mind  ;  and  would  have  totally 
overwhelmed  the  feeble.  "•  They  all  wept  sore,  and  fell  on 
Paul's  neck,  and  kissed  him;  sorrowing  most  of  all  for  ilie 
words  which  he  spoke,  that  they  should  see  his  face  no 
more." — What  were  then  the  sentiments,  what  was  the  lan- 
guage, of  this  great  and  good  man  ?  Hear  tlie  words  which 
spoke  his  firm  and  undaunted  mind. 

4  "Behold,  I  go  bound  in  the  spirit,  to  Jerusalem,  not 
knowing  the  things  that  shall  befall  me  there ;  save  that  the 
Holy  Spirit  witnesseth  in  every  city,  saymg,  that  bonds 
and  afflictions  abide  me.  But  none  of  these  things  move 
me;  neither  count  I  my  life  dear  to  myself,  so  that  I  might 
finish  my  course  with  joy,  and  the  ministry  which  I  have 
received  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  to  testify  the  gospel  of  the  grace 
of  God." 

5  There  was  uttered  the  voice,  there  breathed  the  spirit,  of 
a  brave  and  virtuous  man.  Such  a  man  knows  not  what  it 
is  to  shrink  from  danger,  when  conscience  points  out  his 
path.  In  that  path  he  Is  determined  to  walk,  let  the  conse- 
quences be  what  they  may.  This  was  the  magnanimous 
*>ehavio\ir  of  that  great  apostle,  when  he  had  persecution 
and  distress  full  in  view. 

6  Attend  now  to  the  sentiments  of  the  same  excellent  man, 
when  the  time  of  his  last  suffering  approached  ;  r.nd  remark 
the  majesty,  and  the  ease,  with  which  he  looked  on  deatli 
•'  I.  am  now  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  cime  of  my  depar- 
ture is  at  hand.  I  have  fought  the  good  fight.  1  have  finish- 
ed my  course.  I'liave  kept  the  faith.  Henceforth  there  is 
laid  uo  for  me  a  crown  of  rigliteousness." 

7  flow  many  years  of  life  does  such  a  dying  moment  over 
balance  I  Who  would  not  choose,  in  this  manner,  to  go  off 
the  stage,  witli  such  a  song  of  triumph  in  his  mouth,  rather 
than  prolong  his  existence  through  a  wretched  old  age, 
stained  with  sin  and  shame  ?  bi.air. 

SECTION  III. 

The  good  man's  comfort  in  affliction. 
THE  religion  of  Christ  not  only  arms  us  with  fortitude 
against  the  app.-oach  of  evil;  but,  supposing  evils  to  fall 
upon  us  with  their  heaviest  pressure,  it  lightens  the  load  by 
many  consolations  to  which  others  are  strangers.  While 
bad  men  trace,  in  the  calamities  with  whicti  they  are  visited, 
the  hand  of  an  offended  sovereign,  Christians  are  taught  to 
view  them  as  the  well-intended  chastisements  of  a  merciful 
Father. 


96  The  English  Reader.  Part  1 

2  They  hear  amidst  tliem,  that  still  Toine  which  a  good 
conscience  brings  to  their  ear:  "  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with  thee: 
be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  thy  God."  They  apply  to  them- 
selves the  comfortable  promises  with  which  the  gospel 
abounds.  They  discover  in  these  the  happy  issue  decreed 
to  their  troubles,  and  wait  with  patience  till  Providence 
shq.ll  have  accomplished  its  great  and  good  design:i= 

3  In  the  mean  time,  Devotion  opens  to  them  its  blessed 
and  hol}'^  sanctuary  :  that  sanctuary  in  which  the  wounded 
heart  is  healed,  and  the  weixry  minil  is  at  rest  ;  where  the 
cares  of  the  world  are  forgotten,  where  its  tumults  are  hush- 
ed, and  its  miseries  disappear;  where  greater  objects  open 
to  our  view  than  any  which  the  world  presents;  where  a 
more  serene  sky  shines,  and  a  sweeter  and  calmer  light 
beams  on  the  afflicted  heart. 

4  In  those  moments  of  devotion,  a  pious  man,  pouring  out 
his  wants  and  sorrows  to  an  Almighty  Supporter,  feels  that 
lie  is  not  left  solitary  and  forsaken  in  a  vale  of  wo.  *God  is 
with  him  ;  Christ  and  the  Holy  Spirit  are  with  him ;  an^ 
though  he  should  be  bereaved  of  eveiy  friend  on  earth,  he 
can  look  up  in  heaven  to  a  Friend  that  will  never  deserl 

him.  BLAIR. 

SECTION  IV.    ■ 

The  close  of  life. 
WHEN  we  contemplate  the  close  of  life ;  the  termination 
of  man's  designs  and  hopes ;  the  silence  that  now  reigns 
among  those  who,  a  little  while  ago,  were  so  busy,  or  so  gay; 
who  can  avoid  being  touched  with  sensations  at  once  awful 
and  tender?  What  heart  but  then  warms  with  the  glow  of 
humanity  ?  In  whose  eye  does  not  the  tear  gather,  on  re- 
volving the  fate  of  passing  and  short-lived  man  ■' 

2  Behold  the  poor  man  who  lays  down  at  last  the  burden 
of  his  wearisome  life.  No  more  shall  he  groan  under  the 
load  of  poverty  and  toil.  No  more  shall  he  hear  the  insolent 
calls  of  the  master,  from  whom  he  received  his  scanty  wages. 
No  more  shall  he  be  raised  from  needful  slumber  on  his  bed 
of  straw,  nor  be  hurried  away  from  his  homely  meal,  to  un- 
dergo the  repeated  labours  of  the  day. 

3  While  his  humble  grave  is  preparing,  ami  a  ievr  poor  and 
decayed  neighbours  are  carrying  him  thitJier,  it  is  good  for 
us  to  think,  that  this  man  too  was  oar  brother  ;  that  for  him 
the  aged  and  destitute  wife,  and  the  needy  children,  now 
weep  ;  that,  neglected  as  he  was  by  the  world,  he  possessed, 
perhaps,  both  a  sound  understanding,  and  a  worthy  heart ; 
and  is  now  carried  by  angels  to  rest  in  Abrdham''s  bosom. 


Chap.  6.  Pathetic  Pieces.  9'l.- 

4  At  no  great  distance  from  him,  the  grave  is  opened  to 
receive  the  rich  and  proud  man.  For,  as  it  is  said  with  em- 
phasis in  the  parable,  "  the  rich  man  also  died,  and  was  bu- 
ried." He  also  died.  His  riches  prevented  not  his  sharing 
the  same  fate  with  the  poor  man;  perhaps,  through  luxury, 
they  accelerated  his  doom.  Then,  indeed,  "  the  mourners 
go  about  the  streets  ;"  and,  while,  in  all  the  pomp  and  mag- 
nificence of  wo,  his  funeral  is  preparing,  his  heirs,  impatient 
to  examine  his  will,  are  looking  on  one  anotlier  with  jealous 
eyes,  and  already  beginning  to  dispute  about  the  division  of 
his  substance. 

5  One  day,  we  see  carried  along,  the  coiBin  of  tlie  smiling 
infant,  the  flower  just  nij-ped  as  it  began  to  blossom  in  the 
parent's  view  :  and  the  next  day,  we  behold  the  young  man, 
or  young  woman,  of  blooming  form  and  promising  hopes, 
laid  in  an  untimely  grave.  While  the  funeral  is  attended  by 
a  numerous,  unconcerned  company,  who  are  discoursing  to 
one  another  about  the  news  of  the  day,  or  the  ordinary  af- 
fairs of  life,  let  our  thoughts  rather  follow  to  the  house  of 
mourning,  and  represent  to  themselves  what  is  passing  there. 

6  There  we  should  see  a  disconsolate  family,  sitting  in  si- 
rent  grief,  thinking  of  the  sad  breach  that  is  made  in  their  lit- 
tle society :  and  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  looking  to  the  cham- 
ber that  IS  now  left  vacant,  and  to  every  memorial  that  pre- 
sents itself  of  their  departed  friend.  By  such  attention  to 
the  woes  of  others,  the  selfish  hardness  of  our  hearts  will  be 
gradually  softened,  and  melted  down  into  humanit)-. 

7  Another  day,  we  follow  to  the  grave,  one  who,  in  old 
age,  and  after  a  long  career  of  life,  has  m  full  maturity  sunJj 
at  last  into  rest.  As  we  are  going  along  to  the  mansion  of  the 
dead,  it  is  natural  for  us  to  think,  and  to  discourse,  of  all  the 
changes  which  such  a  person  has  seen  during  the  course  of 
bis  life.  He  has  passed,  it  is  likely,  through  varieties  of  for- 
tune. He  has  experienced  prosperity,  and  adversity.  He 
has  seen  families  and  kindreds  rise  and  fall.  He  has  seen 
peace  and  war  succeeding  in  their  turns  ;  the  face  of  his 
country  undergoing  many  alterations ;  and  the  very  city  in 
which  he  dwelt,  rising,  in  a  manner,  new  around  him. 

fi  After  all  he  has  beheld,  his  eyes  are  now  closed  forever. 
He  was  becoming  a  stranger  in  the  midst  of  a  new  succes- 
sion of  men.  A  race  who  knew  him  not,  had  arisen  to  fill 
the  earth. — Thus  passes  the  world  away.  Throughout  all 
ranks  and  conditions,  "  one  generation  passeth,  and  another 
generation  cometh  ;"  and  this  great  inn  is  by  turns  evacuat- 
e  1  and  replenished,  by  troops  of  succeeding  pilgrims. 

9  O  vain  and  inconstant  world  I    O  fleeting  and  transient 


98  The  English  Reader.  Pari  \. 

life.  When  will  tlie  sons  of  men  learn  to  think  cf  thee  as 
lliey  ought  ?  When  will  the)-  learn  humanity  from  the  afflic- 
tions of  their  brethren  ;  or  moderation  and  wisdom,  from 
the  sense  of  their  own  fug-itive  state  ?  blair. 

SECTION  V. 

Exalted  society,  and  the  renewal  of  virtuous  connexions,  two 
sources  offuture felicity. 
BESIDES  the  felicity  which  springs  from  perfect  love, 
there  are  two  circumstances  which  particularly  enhance 
the  blessedness  of  that  "  multitude  who  stand  before  the 
throne  ;"  these  are,  access  to  the  most  exalted  society,  and 
renewal  of  the  most  tender  connexions.  The  former  is  point- 
ed out  in  the  Scripture,  by  "joining  the  innumerable  com 
pany  of  angels,  and  the  general  assembly  and  church  of  the 
first-born  ;  by  sitting  down  with  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and 
•Jacob,  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;"  a  promise  which  openf 
the  sublimcst  prospects  to  the  human  mind. 

2  It  allows  good  men  to  entertain  the  hope,  that,  separat- 
ed from  all  the  dregs  of  the  human  mass,  from  that  mixed 
and  polluted  crowd  in  the  midst  of  which  they  now  dwell, 
they  shall  be  permitted  to  mingle  with  prophets,  patriarchs, 
and  apostles,  with  all  those  great  and  illustrious  spirits,  who 
have  shone  in  former  ages  as  the  servants  of  God,  or  the 
benefactors  of  men ;  whose  deeds  we  are  accustomed  to  cele- 
brate ;  whose  steps  we  now  follow  at  a  distance ;  and  whose 
names  we  pronounce  witli  veneration. 

3  United  to  this  high  assembly,  the  blessed,  at  the  same 
time,  renew  those  ancient  connexions  with  virtuous  friends, 
xvhich  had  been  dissolved  by  deatli.  The  prospect  of  this 
awakens  in  the  heart,  the  most  pleasing  and  tender  senti- 
ment that  perhaps  can  fill  it,  in  this  mortal  state.  For  of  all 
the  sorrows  which  we  are  here  doomed  to  endure,  none  is  so 
bitter  as  that  occasioned  by  the  fatal  stroke  which  separates 
us,  in  appearance  forever,  from  those  to  which  either  nature 
or  friendship  had  intimatelj' joined  our  hearts. 

4  Memory,  from  time  to  time,  renews  the  anguish;  opens 
the  wound  which  seemed  once  to  have  been  closed  ;  and,  by 
recalling  joys  that  are  past  and  gone,  touches  every  spring 
of  painful  sensibility.  In  these  agonizing  moments,  how  re- 
lieving the  thought,  that  the  separation  is  only  teinporar}-, 
not  eternal ;  that  there  is  a  time  to  come  of  re-union  with 
those  with  whom  our  happiest  days  were  spent ;  whose  joys 
and  sorrows  once  were  ours;  whose  piety  and  virtue  cheered 
and  encouraged  us;  and  from  whom  after  Ave  shall  have  land- 
ed on  tlie  peaceful  .shore  where  thoy  dwe!!,no  revolutions  of 


Chaf.  6.  Pathetic  Pieces.  9-9 

nature  shall  ever  be  able  to  part  us  more  !  Such  is  the  soci- 
ety of  the  blessed  above.  Of  such  are  the  multitude  compo- 
sed, who  "  stands  before  the  throne."  blair. 

SECTION  VI. 
The  clemency  and  amiable  character  of  the  patriarch  Joseph. 
NO  human  character  exhibited  in  the  recoi  ds  of  Scrip- 
ture, is  more  remarkable  and  instructive  than  that  of 
the  patriarch  Joseph.  He  is  one  whom  we  behold  tried  in 
all  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune;  from  the  condition  of  a  slave, 
rising'  to  be  ruler  of  the  land  of  Egypt ;  and  in  every  station 
acquiring,  by  his  virtue  and  wisdom,  favour  with  God  and 
man.  When  overseer  of  Potiphar's  house,  his  fidelity  was 
proved  by  strong  temptations,  which  he  honourably  resisted. 

2  When  thrown  into  prison  by  the  artifices  of  a  false  wo- 
man, his  integrity  and  prudence  soon  rendered  him  conspic- 
uous, even  in  that  dark  mansion.  When  called  into  tlie  pre- 
sence of  Pharaoh,  the  wise  and  extensive  plan  which  he 
formed  for  saving  the  kingdom  from  the  miseries  of  impend- 
ing famine,  justly  raised  him  to  a  high  station,  wherein  his 
abiUties  were  eminently  displayed  in  the  public  service. 

3  But  in  his  whole  history,  there  is  no  circumstance  so 
striking  and  interesting,  as  his  behaviou!'to  his  brethern  who 
had  sold  him  into  slavery.  The  moment  in  which  he  made 
himself  known  to  them,  was  the  most  critical  one  of  his  life, 
and  the  most  decisive  of  his  character.  It  is  such  as  rarely 
occurs  in  the  course  of  human  events;  and  is  calculated  to 
draw  the  highest  attention  of  all  who  are  endowed  with  any 
degree  of  sensibility  of  heart. 

4  From  the  whole  tenour  of  the  narration,  it  appears,  that 
though  Joseph,  upon  the  arrival  of  his  brethren  in  Egypt, 
made  himself  strange  to  them,  yet,  from  the  beginning,  he 
intended  to  discover  himself;  and  studied  so  to  conduct  the 
discovery,  as  might  render  tlie  surprise  of  joy  complete. 
For  this  end,  by  affected  severity,  he  took  measures  for 
bringing  down  into  Egypt  all  his  father's  children. 

5  They  were  now  arrived  there ;  and  Benjamin  among 
the  rest,  who  was  his  younger  brother  by  the  same  mother, 
and  was  particularly  beloved  by  Joseph.  Him  he  threaten- 
ed to  detain  :  and  seemed  willing  to  allow  the  rest  to  depart. 
This  incident  renewed  their  distress.  They  ail  knew  their 
father's  extreme  anxiety  about  the  safety  of  Benjamin,  and 
with  what  difficulty  he  had  yielded  to  his  undertaking  this 
journey. 

6  Should  he  be  prevented  from  returning,  they  dreaded 
that  grief  would  overpower  the  old  man's  spirits,  and  prove 


100  The  English  Reader  >      Part  1 

fatal  to  his  life.  Judah,  therefore,  who  had  particularly 
urg:ed  the  necessity  of  Benjamin's  accompanying  his  brothers, 
ana  liad  solemnly  pledged  himself  to  their  father  for  his  s-afe 
return,  craved,  upon  this  occasion,  an  audience  of  the  gov- 
ernor ;  and  gave  him  a  full  account  of  the  circumstauces  of 
Jacob's  family. 

7  Nothing  can  be  more  interesting  and  pathetic  than  this 
disrourse  of  Judah.  Little  knowing  to  whom  he  spoke,  he 
i)aints  in  all  the  colours  of  simple  and  natural  eloquence,  the 
distressed  situation  of  the  aged  patriarch,  hastening  to  the 
close  of  life;  long  afflicted  for  the  lossof  a  favourite  son,  whom 
he  supposed  to  have  been  torn  in  pieces  by  a  beast  of  prey ; 
labouring  now  under  anxious  concern  about  his  youngest 
son,  the  child  of  his  old  age,  who  alone  was  left  alive  of  his 
mother,  and  whom  nothing  but  the  calamities  of  severe  fam- 
ine could  have  moved  a  tender  father  to  send  from  home, 
and  expose  to  the  dangers  of  a  foreign  land. 

8  "  If  we  bring  him  not  back  with  us,  we  shall  bring  down 
the  gray  hairs  of  thy  servant,  our  father,  witli  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  I  pray  thee  therefore  let  thy  servant  abide,  instead  of 
the  vcng  man,  a  bondman  to  our  lord.  For  how  shall  I  go 
up  to  my  father,  and  Benjamin  not  with  me'  lest  I  see  the 
evil  that  shall  come  on  my  father." 

9  Upon  this  relation,  Joseph  could  no  longer  restrain  him- 
self. The  tender  ideas  of  his  father,  and  his  father's  house, 
of  his  ancient  home,  his  country,  and  his  kindred,  of  the  dis- 
tress of  his  famil)',  and  his  own  exaltation,  all  rushed  too 
strongly  upon  his  mind  to  bear  any  farther  concealment. 
He  cried,  "  Cause  every  man  to  go  out  from  me ;  and  he 
wept  aloud." 

10  The  tears  which  he  shed  were  not  tJie  tears  of  grief. 
They  were  the  burst  of  affection.  They  were  the  effusions 
of  a  heart  overflowing  with  all  the  tender  sensibilities  of  na- 
ture. Formerly  he  had  been  moved  in  the  same  manner, 
when  he  lirst  saw  his  brethern  before  him.  "  His  bowels 
yearned  upon  them ;  he  sought  for  a  place  where  to  weep 
He  went  into  his  chamber;  and  then  washed  his  face  and 
returned  to  them." 

1 1  At  that  period,  his  generous  plans  were  not  completed. 
Eut  now,  when  there  was  no  farther  occasion  for  constraining 
himself,  he  gave  free  vent  to  the  strong  emotions  of  his  heart. 
The  first  minister  to  the  king  of  Egypt  was  not  ashamed  to 
show,  tliat  he  felt  as  a  man  and  a  brother.  "  He  wept  aloud  , 
and  the  Egyptians,  and  the  house  of  Pharaoh  heard  him." 

12  The  first  words  which  his  swelling  heart  allowed  him 
to  pronounce,  are  the  ir.o%i  suitable  to  such  an  affecting  situa- 


Chap.  6.  Pathetic  Pieces.  101 

tion  that  were  erer  uttered ; — "  I  am  Joseph ;  doth  my  fatli- 
er  yet  live?" — What  could  he,  what  ought  he,  in  that  impas- 
sioned moment,  to  have  said  more  ?  This  is  the  voice  of  na- 
ture herself,  speaking  her  own  language ;  and  it  penetrates 
the  heart :  no  pomp  of  expression  ;  no  parade  of  kindness  -, 
but  strong  affection  hastening  to  utter  what  it  strongly  felt. 

13  "His  brethren  could  not  answer  him;  for  they  were 
troubled  at  his  presence."  Their  silence  it  as  expressive  of 
those  emotions  of  repentance  and  shame,  which,  on  this  ama- 
zing discovery,  filled  their  breasts,  and  stopped  their  utter- 
lance,  as  the  few  ^vords  which  Joseph  speaks,  are  expres- 
sive of  the  generous  agitations  which  struggled  for  vent  witliin 
him. 

14  No  painter  could  seize  a  more  striking  moment  for  dis- 
playing the  characteristical  features  of  the  human  heart,  than 
wliat  is  here  presented.  Never  was  there  a  situation  of 
moi'e  tender  and  virtuous  joy,  on  the  one  hand ;  nor,  on  the 
other,  of  more  overwhelming  confusion  and  conscious  guilt. 
In  ihe  simple  narration  of  the  sacred  historian,  it  is  set  be- 
fore us  with  greater  energy  and  higher  effect,  than  if  it  had 
been  wrought  up  with  all  the  colouring  of  the  most  admired 
modern  eloquence.  elair. 

SECTION  VII. 

ALTAMONT. 

The  following  account  of  an  affecting,  mournful  exit,  is  relat- 
ed by  Dr.  Young,  who  was  present  atthe  melancholy  scene. 
THE  sad  evening  before  the  death  of  the  noble  youth, 
whose  last  hours  suggested  the  most  solemn  and  awful 
redectioas,  I  was  with  him.  No  one  was  present,  but  his 
physician,  and  an  intimate  whom  he  loved,  and  whom  he 
had  ruined.  At  my  coming  in,  he  said,  "You  and  the  phy- 
sician, are  come  too  late.  I  have  neither  life  nor  hope.  You 
both  aim  at  miracles.     You  would  raise  the  dead  I" 

2  Heaven,  I  said,  was  merciful — "  Or,"  exclaimed  he, — "  1 
could  not  have  been  thus  guilty.  What  has  it  not  done  to 
bless  and  to  save  me ! — I  have  been  too  strong  for  Omnipo- 
tence I  I  have  plucked  down  ruin." 1  said,  the  blessed 

Piedeemer, — ■'  Hold  !  hold  1  you  wound  me  ! — That  is  the 
rock  on  which  I  split : — I  denied  his  name  1" 

3  Refusing  to  hear  any  thing  from  me,  or  take  any  thing 
from  ihe  physician,  he  lay  silent,  as  far  as  sudden  darts  of  pain 
would  permit,  till  tlieclock  struck  :  Then  with  vehemence  he 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  time  1  time  I  it  is  fit  thou  shouldst  thus 
strike  thy  murderer  to  the  heart ! — How  art  thou  fled  for 
e\erl — A  montlil  Oh,   for  a   single  week'  I  ask  not  for 

12 


102  The  English  Reader.  Part  !. 

years!  thonjh  anajc  were  too  little  for  tlie  much  I  have  to 
ao." 

4  On  my  saying',  we  could  not  do  too  much  ;  that   heaven 

was  a  blessed  place "So  much  the  worse. — 'Tis  lost  I  'tis 

lost ! — Heaven  is  to  me  the  severest  part  of  hell  I"  Soon 
after  I  proposed  prayer, — "Pray  you  that  can,  I  never 
prayed.  I  cannot  pray — nor  need  I.  Is  not  heaven  on  my 
side  already?  li  closes  with  my  conscience.  Its  severest 
strokes  but  second  my  own." 

5  Observinj  that  his  friend  was  much  touched  at  this,  even 
to  tears — (who  could  forbear?  I  could  not) — with  a  most 
alfcctionate  look,  he  said,  "  Keep  those  tears  for  Ihj'self.  I 
have  undone  thee. — Dost  thou  weep  forme?  That  is  cruel. 
^V'hat  can  pain  me  more?" 

6  Here  his  friend,  too  much  affected,  would  have  left  him. 
"  JNo,  stay — thou  still  mayst  hope ;  therefore  hear  me.  Ho«' 
madly  have  I  talked  !  How  madly  hast  thou  listened  and  be- 
lieved !  but  look  on  my  present  state,  as  a  full  answer  to  thee, 
and  to  myself.  This  body  is  all  weakness  and  pain  ;  but  my 
sou!,  as  if  stung'  up  by  torment  to  greater  streng-lh  and  spirit, 
is  full  powerful  to  reason ;  full  mighty  to  sutler.  And  that 
which  thus  triumphs  within  the  jaws  of  immortality,  is,  doiibt- 
less,  immortal — And,  as  for  a  Deity,  nothing  less  than  au 
Almighty  could  inflict  what  I  feel." 

7  1  was  about  to  congratulate  tliis  passive,  involuntarj'  con- 
fessor, on  his  asserting  the  two  prime  articles  of  his  creed,  ex- 
torted by  the  rack  of  nature,  when  he  thus,  very  passionately 
exclaimed  : — ^'■'!^o,  no  !  let  me  speak  on.  I  have  not  long  to 
speak. — My  much  injured  friend!  my  soul,  as  my  body,  lies 
in  ruins;  in  scattered  fragments  of  broken  thought. 

8  Remorse  Pjr  the  past,  throws  my  thought  on  the  future. 
Worse  dread  of  the  future,  strikes  it  backon  the  past.  I  turn, 
and  turn,  and  find  no  ray.  Didst  thou  feel  half  the  mountain 
that  is  on  me,  tliou  wouldst  struggle  with  the  martjT  for  his 
stake :  and  bless  Heaven  for  the  flarnes  I — that  is  not  an  ever- 
lasting  flame;  that  is  not  an  unquenchable  fire." 

9  How  were  we  struck  !  yet  soon  after,  still  more.  With 
what  an  e)'e  of  distraction,  what  a  face  of  despair,  he  cried 
out!  "  My  principles  have  poisoned  my  friend;  my  extrava- 
gance has  beggared  my  boy !  my  unkindness  has  murdered 
mv  wife  : — And  is  there  another  hell?  Oh!  thou  blasphemed, 
yet  indulgent  LORD  GOD  !  Hell  itself  is  a  refuge,  if  it  hide 
ine  from  thy  frotvn  !" 

10  Soon  after,  his  understanding  failed.  Histerrified  ima- 
gination uttered  horrors  not  to  be  repeated,  or  ever  forgotten. 
And  ere  the  sun  'which,  I  hope,  has  seen  few  like  him)  arosd, 


Chap.  7.  Dialogues.  W)3 

the  gay,  yoxmg',  noble,  ingenious,,  accomplished,  and  most 
wretched  Altamont,  expired ! 

1 1  II  this  is  a  man  of  pleasure,  what  is  a  man  of  pain  ?  How 
quick,  how  total,  is  the  transit  of  such  persons!  In  what  a 
dismal  gloom  they  set  for  ever !  How  short,  alas  !  the  day  of 
their  rejoicing  I — For  a  moment,  they  glitter — they  dazzle! 
In  a  moment  uiiere  are  they .''  Oblivion  covers  their  memories. 
Ah  I  would  it  did !  Infamy  snatches  them  from  oblivion.  In 
tlie  long  living  annals  of  infamy,  their  triumphs  are  recorded. 

12  Thy  sutierings,  poor  Altamont!  still  bleed  in  the  bosom 
of  the  heart-stricken  friend — for  Altamont  had  a  friend.  He 
might  have  had  mi^ny.  His  transient  morning  might  have 
been  the  dawn  of  an  immortal  day.  His  name  miglit  have 
been  gloriously  enrolled  m  the  records  of  eternitj'.  His  me- 
mory might  have  left  a  sweet  fragrance  behind  it,  grateful  to 
the  surviving  friend,  salutary  to  the  succeeding  generation. 

13  With  what  capacity  was  he  endowed!  with  what  ad- 
vantages, for  being  greatly  good!  But  with  the  talents  of  an 
angel,  a  man  may  be  a  fool.  If  he  judges  amiss  in  the  su- 
preme point,  judging  right  in  all  else,  but  aggravates  his 
folly ;  as  it  shows  him  wrong,  thougli  blessed  with  the  best 
capacity  of  being  right.  dk.  young. 

%  CHAPTER  VII. 

DIALOGUES. 
SECTION  I. 

DEMCCaiTUS  AND  HERACLITUS.* 

Tkc  vices  and  follies  of  men  should  exile  compassion  rather 
than  ridicule. 

Democritus.  I  find  it  impossible  to  reconcile  myself  to  a 
melancholy  philosophy. 

Heraclihis.  And  I  am  equally  unable  to  approve  of  that  vain 
philosophy,  which  teaches  men  to  despise  and  ridicule  one 
another.  To  a  wise  and  feeling  miud,  tlie  world  appears  in 
a  wretched  and  painful  light. 

Dtfii.  Thou  art  too  much  affected  with  the  state  of  things 
and  this  is  a  source  of  misery  to  thee. 

Her.  And  I  think  thou  art  too  little  moved  by  it.  Thy 
mirth  and  ridicule,  bespeak  the  bufibon,  rather  than  the  phi- 
losopher. Does  it  not  excite  thy  compassion,  to  see  mankind 
so  frail,  so  blind,  so  far  departed  from  the  rules  of  virtue? 

Dem.  I  am  excited  to  laughter,  when  I  see  so  much  mi- 
pertinence  and  folly. 

*  Democritus  aiitl  Heraclitus  were  two  ancient  philosophers,  the  former 
ofw  horn  laughed,  and  the  latter  wept,  at  the  errorsandfolliesof  mankind, 


104  The  English  Reader.  Part  I 

Her.  And  yet,  after  aU,  they,  who  are  the  objects  of  thy 
ridicule,  include,  not  only  mankind  in  general,  but  the  pert 
sons  with  whom  thou  livest,  thy  friends,  thy  family,  iiay 
even  thyself. 

Dem.  I  care  very  little  for  all  the  silly  persons  1  meet 
with ;  and  think  I  am  justifiable  in  diverting  myself  with  their 
folly. 

Her.  If  Ihey  are  weak  and  foolish,  it  marks  neither  wis- 
dom nor  humanity,  to  insult  rather  than  pity  them.  But  is 
it  certain,  that  thou  art  not  as  extravagant  as  they  are? 

Dem.  I  presume  that  I  am  not ;  since,  in  every  point,  my 
sentiments  are  the  very  reverse  of  theirs. 

Her.  There  are  follies  of  different  kinds.  By  constantly 
amusing  thyself  with  the  errors  and  misconduct  of  others, 
thou  mayst  render  thyself  equally  ridiculous  and  culpable. 

Dem.  Thou  art  at  liberty  to  indulge  such  sentiments  ;  and 
to  weep  over  me  too,  if  thou  hast  any  tears  to  spare.  For 
my  part,  I  cannot  refrain  from  pleasing  myself  with  the  levi- 
ties and  ill  conduct  of  the  world  about  m.e.  Are  not  all  men 
foolish,  or  irregular  in  their  lives  ? 

Her.  Alas!  there  is  but  too  much  reason  to  believe  they 
are  so :  and  on  this  ground,  I  pity  and  deplore  their  condi'- 
tion.  We  agree  in  this  point,  that  men  do  not  conduct 
themselves  according  to  reasonable  and  just  principles :  boi 
I,  who  do  not  suffer  myself  to  act  as  they  do,  must  yet  regarc 
the  dictates  of  my  understanding  and  feelings,  which  compel 
me  to  love  them  ;  and  that  love  fills  me  with  compassion  for 
their  mistakes  and  irregularities.  Canst  thou  condemn  me 
fjr  pitying  my  own  species,  my  brethren,  persons  bom  in 
the  same  condition  of  life,  and  destined  to  the  same  hopes  and 
privileges?  If  thou  shouldst  enter  a  hospital,  where  sick  anu 
wounded  persons  reside,  would  their  wounds  and  distresses 
excite  thy  mirth  ?  And  yet,  the  evils  of  the  body,  bear  no 
comparison  with  those  of  the  mind.  Thou  wouldst  certain- 
ly blush  at  thy-  barbarity,  if  tliou  hadst  been  so  unfeeling  as 
to  laugh  at  or  despise  a  poor  miserable  being,  who  had  lost 
one  of  his  legs:  and  yfetthou  art  so  destitute  of  humanity,  as 
to  ridicule  those,  who  appear  to  be  deprived  of  the  nohle 
powers  of  the  understanding,  by  the  little  regard  which  they 
pay  to  its  dictates. 

Dem.  He  who  has  lost  a  leg,  is  to  be  pitied,  because  i\\>i 
loss  is  not  to  be  imputed  to  himself:  but  he  who  rejects  the 
dictates  of  reason  and  conscience,  voluntarily  deprives  him- 
self of  tlMjir  aid.     The  loss  originates  in  his  own  folly. 

Her.  Ah !  so  much  the  more  is  he  to  be  pitied  I  A  furious 


Chap.  7.  Dialogues.  105 

maniac,  wlio  should  pluck  out  liis  own  eyes,  would  deserve 
more  compassion  than  an  ordinary  biind  man. 

Dem.  Come,  let  us  accommodate  the  business.  There  is 
something-  to  be  said  on  each  side  of  the  question.  There  is 
every  where  reason  fur  laughing,  and  reason  for  weeping-. 
The  world  is  ridiculous,  and  I  laugh  at  it:  it  is  deplorable, 
and  thou  lamentest  over  it.  Every  person  views  it  in  his 
own  wa3^  and  according  to  his  own  temper.  One  point  is  un- 
questionable; that  mankind  are  preposterous:  to  think  right, 
and  to  act  well,  we  must  think  and  act  differently  from  them. 
To  submit  to  the  authority,  and  follow  the  example  of  the 
greater  part  of  men,  would  render  us  foolish  and  miserable. 

Her.  All  this  is,  indeed,  true  ;  but  then,  thou  hast  no  real 
love  or  feeling  for  thy  species.  The  calamities  of  mankind 
excite  thy  mirth :  and  this  proves  that  thou  hast  no  regard 
for  men,  nor  any  true  respect  for  the  virtues  which  they  have 
unhappily  abandoned. — Fenelon,  Archbishop  of  Cambray. 
SECTION  II. 

DIONYSIUS,  PYTHIAS,  AND  DAMON. 

Genuine  virtue  commands  respect,  even  from  the  had. 
^bj)ix)nysins.    AMAZING!    What  del  see?    It  is  Pythias 
>i^ist  arrived. — It  is  indeed  Pythias.     I  did  not  think  it  possi- 
ble.    He  is  come  to  die,  and  to  redeem  his  friend  ! 

Pythias.  Yes,  it  is  Pythias.  I  left  the  place  of  my  con- 
finement, with  no  other  vi&ws,  than  to  pay  to  heaven  the 
vows  I  had  made  ;  to  settle  my  family  concerns  according 
to  the  rules  of  justice ;  and  to  bid  adieu  to  my  children,  that 
I  might  die  tranquil  and  satisfied. 

Dio.  But  why  dost  thou  return?  Hast  thou  no  fear  of  death? 
Is  itnotthecharacter  of  amadman,toseekitthus  voluntarily? 

Py.  I  return  to  suffer,  though  I  have  not  deserved  death. 
Every  principle  of  honour  and  goodness,  forbids  me  to  al- 
low my  friend  to  die  for  me. 

Dio.  Dost  thou,  then,  love  him  better  than  thj'self? 

Py.  No ;  I  love  him  as  myself.  But  I  am  persuaded  that 
I  ought  to  suffer  death,  rather  than  my  friend  ;  since  it  was 
Pythias  whom  thou  hadst  decreed  to  die.  It  were  not  just  that 
Damon  should  suffer,  to  deliver  me  from  the  death  which 
was  designed,  not  for  him,  but  for  me  only. 

Dio.  But  thou  supposest,  that  it  is  as  unjust  to  inflict  death 
upon  thee,  as  upon  tliy  friend. 

Py.  Very  true  ;  we  are  both  perfectly  innocent ;  and  it 
IS  equally  unjust  to  make  either  of  us  suffer. 

Dio.  Why  dost  thou  then  assert,  that  it  were  injustice  to 
put  iiim  to  death,  instead  of  tliee  ■* 


106  The  English  Reader.  Pari  h 

Pij.  It  is  unjust,  in  the  same  degree,  to  inflict  death  either 
on  Damon  or  on  myself;  but  Pythias  were  iiighly  culi)able 
to  let  Damon  suffer  that  death,  which  the  tyrant  iiad  prepar- 
ed for  Pythias  only. 

Dio.  Dost  thou  then  return  hither,  on  the  day  appoiDted,with 
no  other  view,than  to  save  the  life  of  a  friend,  by  losing  thy  own ' 

Py.  I  return,  in  regard  to  thee,  to  surlier  an  act  of  injus- 
tice which  it  is  common  for  tyrants  to  inflict ;  and,  wilh  re- 
spect to  Damon,  to  perform  my  duty,  by  rescuing^  him  from 
the  danger  he  incurred  by  his  generosity  to  me. 

Dio.  And  now,  Damon,  let  me  address  myself  to  thee. 
Didst  thou  not  really  fear,  that  Pythias  would  never  return ; 
and  that  thou  wouldst  be  put  to  dealh  on  his  account.' 

Da.  I  was  but  too  well  assured,  that  Pythias  would  punc- 
tually return;  and  that  he  would  be  more  solicitous  to  keep 
his  promise,  than  to  preserve  his  life.  Would  to  heiven, 
that  his  relations  and  friends  had  forcibly  detained  him  I  He 
would  then  have  lived  for  the  comfort  and  benefit  of  good 
men  ;    and  I  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  dying  for  him  ! 

Dio.  What  !  Does  life  displease  thee  .'' 

Da.  Yes  ;  It  displeases  me  when  I  see  and  feel  the  pow 
er  of  a  tyrant. 

Dio.  It  is  well  I  Thou  shalt  see  him  no  more.  I  will  or- 
der thee  to  be  put  to  death  immediately.         .'■;,       ">  ■ 

Py.  Pardon  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  sjntipathizes  with ' 
his  dying  friend.     But  remember  it  was  Pythias   who  wa.^ 
devoted  by  thee  to  destruction.     I  come  to  submit  to  it,  that 
I  may  redeem  my  friend.     Do  not  refuse  me  this  consolation 
in  my  last  hour. 

Dio.  I  cannot  endure  men,  who  despise  death,  and  set  my 
power  at  defiance. 

Da.  Thou  canst  not,  then,  endure  virtue. 

Dio.  No  :  I  cannot  endure  that  proud,  disdainful  virtue 
which  contemns  life  ;  which  dreads  no  punishment ;  and 
which  is  insensible  to  the  charms  of  riches  and  pleasure. 

Da.  Thou  scest,  however,  that  it  is  a  virtue,  which  is  not 
insensible  to  the  dictates  of  honour,  justice,  and   friendship. 

Dio.  Guards,  take  Pythias  to  execution.  We  shall  see 
whether  Damon  will  continue  to  despise  my  authority. 

Da.  Pytliias,  by  returning  to  submit  himself  to  thy  plea 
sure,  has  merited  his  life,  and  deserved  thy  favour:  but  I 
have  excited  thy  indignation,  by  resigning  mv&elf  to  thy 
power,  in  order  to  save  him  ;  be  satisfied,  then,  with  this 
sacrifice,  and  put  me  to  death. 

Py.  Hold,  Dionysius !  remember,  it  was  Pythias  alone 
who  offended  thee  ;  Damon  could  not 


Chap.  7.  Dialogues.  107 

Din.  Alas  I  what  do  I  see  and  hear  I  where  am  I  ?  How 
miserable  ;  aad  how  worthy  to  be  so!  I  have  hitherto knowD 
nothing-  of  true  virtue.  I  have  spent  my  life  in  darkness  and 
error.  All  my  power  and  honours,  are  insufficient  to  pro- 
duce love.  I  cannot  boast  of  having-  acquired  a  single  friend 
in  the  course  of  a  reign  of  thirty  years.  And  yet  these  two 
persons,  in  a  private  condition,  love  one  another  tenderly, 
unreservedly  confide  in  each  other,  are  mutuaLy  happy,  and 
ready  to  die  for  each  other's  preservation. 

Py.  How  couldst  thou,  who  hast  never  loved  any  person 
expect  to  have  friends  ?  If  thou  hadst  loved  and  respected 
men,  thou  wouldst  have  secured  their  love  and  respect.  Thou 
hast  feared  mankind  ;  and  they  fear  thee ;  they  detest  thee. 

Dio.  Damon,  Pythias,  condescend  to  admit  me  as  a  thira 
friend,  in  a  connexion  so  perfect.  I  give  you  your  lives,  and 
I  will  load  you  with  riches. 

D,i.  We  have  no  desire  to  be  enriched  by  thee  ;  and,  in 
regard  to  thy  friendship,  we  cannot  accept  or  enjoy  it,  till 
thou  become  good  and  just.  Without  these  qualities,  thou 
canst  be  connected  with  none  but  trembling  slaves,  and  base 
flatterers  To  be  loved  and  esteemed  by  men  of  free  and 
generous  minds,  thou  must  be  virtuous,  affectionate,  disin- 
terested, beneficent ;  and  know  how  to  live  in  a  sort  of  equal- 
ity with  those  who  share  and  deserve  thy  friendship. 

Fenelon,  Archbislwp  of  Camhray. 
SECTION  III. 

LOCKE  AND  BAYLE. 

Christianity  defended  against  the  cavils  of  scepticism. 

Bayle.  YES,  we  both  were  philosophers  ;  but  my  philo 
sopliy  was  the  deepest.    You  dogmatized ;  I  doubted. 

Locke.  Do  you  make  doubting  aproof  of  depth  in  philoso- 
phy ?  It  may  be  a  good  beginning  of  it ;  but  it  is  a  bad  end. 

Bayle.  No  : — the  more  profound  our  searches  are  into  the 
nature  of  things,  the  more  uncertainty  we  shall  find ,  and 
the  most  subtle  minds,  see  objections  and  difficulties  in  eve- 
ry system,  which  are  overlooked  or  undiscoverable  by  or- 
dinary understandings. 

Locke.  It  would  be  better  then  to  be  no  philosopher,  and 
to  continue  in  the  \ailgar  herd  of  mankind,  that  one  may  have 
the  convenience  of  thinking  that  one  knows  something.  I 
find  that  the  eyes  which  natnre  has  given  m6,  see  many  things 
very  clearly,  though  some  are  out  of  their  reach,  or  (discern- 
ed but  dimly.  What  opinion  ought  I  to  have  of  a  physician, 
who  should  offer  me  an  eye-water,  the  use  of  which  would  at 
first  so  stiarpen  m}'  sight,  as  to  carry  it  farther  than  ordinary 


108  The  English  Readei.  Part    1. 

vision  ;  but  would  in  the  end  put  them  out?  our  philosophy 
is  to  the  ej'es  of  the  nnind,  what  I  have  supposed  the  doctor's 
nostrum  to  be  to  those  of  the  body.  It  actually  bri>ngiit 
j-our  own  excellent  understanding,  which  was  by  nature 
quick-sighted,  and  rendered  more  so  by  art  and  a  subtiily  of 
logic  peculiar  to  yourself — it  brought,  I  say,  your  very  acute 
understanding  to  see  nothing  clearly ;  and  enveloped  all  the 
great  tiuths  of  reason  and  religion  in  mists  of  doubt. 

Bayle.  I  own  it  did  ; — but  your  comparison  is  not  just.  I 
did  not  see  well,  before  1  used  my  philosophic  eye-water  ;  1 
only  supposed  I  saw  well ;  but  I  was  in  an  error,  with  all  the 
rest  of  mankind.  The  blindness  was  real,  tlfi  perceptions 
were  imaginary.  I  cured  myself  first  of  those  false  imagina- 
tions, and  then  I  laudably  endeavoured  to  cure  other  men. 

Locke.  A  g'reat  cure  indeed! — and  do  not  you  think  that, 
m  return  for  the  service  you  did  them,  they  ought  to  erect 
you  a  statue  ? 

Bayle.  Yes  ,•  it  is  good  for  human  nature  to  know  its  own 
weakness.  When  we  arrogantly  presume  on  a  stiength 
we  have  not,  we  are  always  in  great  danger  of  hurting  our- 
selves, or  at  least  of  deserving  ridicule  and  contempt,  by 
vain  and  idle  efforts. 

Locke.  I  agree  with  you,  that  human  nature  should  know 
its  own  weaknesss  ;  but  it  should  also  feel  its  strength,  and 
try  to  improve  it.  This  was  my  employment  as  a  philosopher. 
I  endeavoured  to  discover  the  real  powers  of  the  mind,  to 
see  what  it  could  do,  and  what  it  could  not ;  to  restrain  it 
from  efforts  beyond  its  ability ;  but  to  teach  it  how  to  ad- 
vance as  far  as  the  faculties  given  to  it  by  nature,  with  the 
utmost  exertion  and  most  proper  culture  of'^them,  would  allow 
it  to  go.  In  the  vast  ocean  of  philosophy,  I  had  the  line  and 
the  plummet  always  in  my  hands.  Many  of  its  depths,  I  found 
myself  unable  to  fathom  •,  but,  by  caution  in  sounding,  and 
the  careful  observations  I  made  in  the  course  of  my  voyage, 
I  found  out  some  truths,  of  so  much  use  to  mankind,  that 
they  acknowledge  me  to  have  been  their  benefactor. 

Bayle.  Their  ignorance  makes  them  think  so.  Some 
other  philosopher  will  come  hereafter,  and  show  those  truths 
to  be  falsehoods.  He  will  pretend  to  discover  other  truths 
of  equal  importance.  A  later  sage  will  arise,  perhaps  among 
men  now  barbarous  and  unlearned,  whose  sagacious  discove- 
ries, will  dicsredit  the  opinions  of  his  admired  predecessor. 
In  philosophy,  as  in  nature,  ail  ffliangcs  its  form,  and  one 
thing  exists  by  the  destruction  ofanotlic-r. 

Locke.  Opinions  taken  up  without  a  patient  investigation, 
depending  on  terms  not  accurately  dcfiiied,   and  principles 


CAujj.  7.  Dialogues.  09^ 

begged  without  proof,  like  theories  to  explain  the  phjenome- 
na  of  nature,  built  on  suppositions  instead  of  experiments, 
must  perpetually  change  and  destroy  one  another.  But 
some  opinions  there  are,  even  in  matters  not  obvious  to  the 
common  sense  of  mankind,  which  the  mind  has  received  on 
such  rational  grounds  of  assent,  that  they  are  as  immovable 
as  the  pillars  of  heaven  ;  or  (to  speak  philosophically)  as  the 
great  laws  of  Nature,  by  which,  under  God,  the  Universe  is 
sustained.  Can  you  seriously  think,  that, because  the  hypo- 
thesis of  your  countryman,  Descartes,  which  was  nothing 
but  an  ingenious,  well-imagined  romance,  has  been  lately 
exploded,  the  system  of  Newton,  which  is  built  on  experi- 
ments and  geometry,  the  two  most  certain  methods  of  dis- 
covering truth,  will  ever  fail;  or  that,  because  the  whims 
of  fanatics,  and  the  divinity  of  the  schoolmen,  oannot  now  be 
supported,  the  doctrines  of  that  religion,  which  I,  the  declared 
enemy  of  all  enthusiasm  and  false  reasoning,  firmly  believed 
and  maintained,  will  ever  be  shaken  ? 

Bayie.  If  you  had  asked  Descartes,  while  he  was  in  the 
height  of  his  vogue,  whether  his  system  would  ever  be  con- 
futed by  any  other  philosophers,  as  that  of  Aristotle  had 
been  by  his,  what  answer  do  you  suppose  he  would  have  re- 
turned ? 

Locke.  Come,  come,  you  yourself  know  the  difference  be- 
tween the  foundations  on  which  the  credit  of  those  systems, 
and  that  of  Newton  is  placed.  Your  scepticism  is  inore  af- 
fected than  real.  You  found  it  a  shorter  way  to  a  great  le- 
putation,  (the  only  wish  of  your  heart,)  to  object,  than  to  de- 
fend ;  to  pull  down,,  than  to  set  up.  And  your  talents  were 
admirable  for  that  kind  of  work.  Then  your  huddling  to- 
gether, in  a  Critical  Dictionary,  a  pleasant  tale  or  obr<cene 
jest,  and  a  grave  argument  agaiDst  the  Christian  religion,  a 
witty  confutation  of  some  absurd  author,  and  an  artful  sophism 
to  impeach  some  respectable  truth,  was  particularly  com- 
modious to  all  our  young  smarts  and  smatterers  in  free-think- 
ing. But  what  mischief  have  you  not  done  to  human  society  ? 
You  have  endeavoured,  with  some  degree  of  success,  to  shake 
those  foundations,  on  w-hich  the  whole  moral  world,  and  the 
great  fabric  of  social  happiness,  entirely  rest.  How  oould 
you,  as  a  philosopher,  in  tVie  sober  hours  of  reflection,  an- 
swer for  tliis  to  your  conscience,  even  supposing  you  had 
doubts  of  the  truth  of  a  system,  which  gives  to  virtue  its 
sweetest  hopes,  to  impenitent  vice  its  greatest  'ears,  and  to 
true  penitence  its  best  consolations  ;  which  lestrains  even 
the  least  approaches  to  guilt,  and  yet  makes  those  allowances 
for  the  infirmities  of  our  nature,  which  the  Stoic  pride  dem- 
K 


•no  The  English  Reader.  PaH  1 . 

ed  to  it.  but  which  its  real  imperfection,  and  the  goodness  of 
Its  iiiliuitely  benevolent  Creator,  so  evidently  require  ? 

Bayle.  The  mind  is  free ;  and  it  love.s  to  exert  its  freedom. 
Any  restraint  upon  it,  is  a  violence  done  to  its  nature,  and  a 
tyranny,  ag'ainst  which  it  has  a  right  to  rebel. 

iMvke.  Tlfcc  mind,  though  free,  has  a  governour  within  it- 
self, which  may  and  ought  to  limit  the  exercise  of  its  freedom. 
That  governour  is  reason. 

Bayle.  Yes  : — but  reason,  like  other  govcrnours,  has  a 
policy  more  dependent  upon  uncertain  caprice,  than  upon 
fixed  laws.  And  if  that  reason,  which  rules  my  mind  or 
yours,  has  happened  to  set  up  a  favourite  notion,  it  not  only 
submits  implicitly  to  it,  but  desire'^  that  the  same  respect 
should  be  paid  to  it  by  all  the  rest  of  mankind.  IS'ow  1  hold 
that  any  man  may  lawfully  oppose  this  desire  in  another,  and 
that  if  he  is  wise,  he  will  use  his  utmost  endeavours  to  check 
it  in  himself 

Ijocke.  Is  there  not  also  a  weakness  of  a  contrary  nature 
to  this  you  are  now  ridiculing  ?  Do  we  not  often  take  a  plea- 
sure in  showing  our  own  power,  and  gratifying  our  own  pride, 
by  degrading  the  notions  set  np  by  other  men,  and  gene- 
rally respected  ? 

Bayle.  I  believe  we  do ;  and  by  this  means  it  often  bap- 
pens,  that,  if  one  man  builds  and  consecrates  a  temple  to 
fo!lv,  another  pulls  it  down. 

Locke.  Do  you  think  it  beneficial  to  human  society,  to 
have  all  temples  pulled  down  ? 

Bayle-    I  cannot  say  that  1  do. 

Lncke.  Yet  I  find  not  in  your  writings  any  mark  of  dis- 
tinction, to  si  ow  us  which  you  mean  to  save. 

Bayle.  A  true  philosopher,  like  an  impartial  historian, 
must  be  of  no  sect. 

Locke.  Is  there  no  medium  between  the  blind  zeal  of  a 
sectary,  and  a  total  indifference  to  all  religion  : 

Bayle    With  regard  to  morality,  I  was  not  indifferent. 

Lockt  How  could  you  then  be  indifferent  with  regard  to 
the  sanctions  religion  gives  to  morality  ?  How  could  you  pub- 
lish what  tends  so  directly  and  apparently  to  weaken  in 
mankind  the  belief  of  those  sanctions  ?  Was  net  this  sacrifi- 
cing tlie  great  interests  of  virtue  to  the  little  motives  of  vanity? 

Bayle.  A  man  maj'  act  indiscreetly,  but  ke  cannot  (lo 
wrong,  by  declaring  that,  which,  on  a  full  discussion  of  Oie 
question,  he  sincerelj  think?  to  be  true. 

Locke.  An  enthusiast,  who  advances  doctrines  prejudicial 
to  society,  or  opposes  any  that  are  useful  to  it,  has  the  strength 
of  (pinion,  and  the  heat  of  a  disturbed   imagintion,  to  plead 


Chap.  7.  Dialogufi  111 , 

in  alleviation  of  his  fault.  But  your  cool  head  and  sound 
judgrnent,  can  iiave  no  such  excuse.  I  know  very  well 
there  are  passag^esin  all  your  works,  and  those  not  few,  where 
you  talk  like  a  rigid  muralist.  I  have  also  heard  that  your 
character  was  irreproachably  good.  But  when,  in  the  most 
laboured  parts  of  your  wriiing-s,  you  sap  the  surest  foundations 
of  all  moral  duties,  what  avails  it  that  in  others,  or  in  the  con- 
duct of  your  life,  you  ajjpeared  to  respect  thein  ?  How  many, 
who  have  stronger  passions  than  you  had,  and  ai  e  desirous  to 
get  rid  of  tlie  curb  th-at  restrains  them,  v/iU  lay  hold  of  your 
scepticism,  to  set  themselves  loose  from  all  obligations  of  vir- 
tue I  Wliat  a  misfortune  is  it  to  have  made  such  a  use  of  sucb 
talents!  It  would  have  been  better  for  you  and  for  mankind, 
if  you  had  been  one  of  the  dullest  of  Dutch  theologians,  or 
the  most  credulous  monk  in  a  Portuguese  convent.  The 
riches  of  the  mind,  like  those  of  fortune,  may  be  employed 
so  perversely,  as  to  become  a  nuisance  and  pest,  insttad  of 
an  ornament  and  support  to  society. 

Baijle.  You  are  very  severe  upon  me. — But  do  you  count 
it,  no  merit,  no  service  to  mankind,  to  deliver  them  from  the 
frauds  and  fetters  of  priestcraft,  from  the  deliriums  of  fanati- 
cism, and  from  tlie  terrors  and  follies  of  superstition?  Con- 
sider how  much  mischief  these  have  done  to  the  world ! 
Even  in  the  last  age,  what  massacres,  what  civil  wars,  what 
convulsions  of  government,  what  confusion  in  society,  did 
they  produce  I  Nay,  in  that  we  hoth  lived  in,  though  much 
more  enlightened  than  the  former,  did  I  not  see  them  occa- 
sion a  violent  persecution  in  my  own  country?  and  can  you 
blame  me  for  striking  at  the  root  of  these  evils? 

Locke.  The  root  of  these  evils,  j'ou  well  know,  was  false 
religion :  hut  you  struck  at  the  true.  Heaven  and  hell  are  not 
more  dift'erent,  than  the  system  of  faith  I  defended,  and  that 
which  produced  the  horrors  of  which  you  speak.  Why 
would  you  so  fallaciously  confound  them  together  in  some  of 
your  writings,  that  it  requires  much  more  judgment,  and  a 
more  diligent  attention,  than  ordinary  readers  have,  to  sepa- 
rate them  again,  and  to  make  the  proper  distinctions?  This, 
indeed,  is  the  great  art  of  the  most  celebrated  free-thinkers. 
They  recommend  themselves  to  warm  and  ingenuous  minds, 
by  lively  strokes  of  w't,  and  by  ai'guments  really  strong, 
against  superstition,  enthusiasm,  and  priestcraft,  but, at  the 
same  time,  they  insidiously  throw  the  colours  of  these  upon 
the  fair  face  of  true  religion,  and  dress  her  out  11^^  their  garb, 
with  a  malignant  intention  to  render  her  odious  ordespicable, 
tO  those  wlio  have  not  penetration  enough  to  discern  the 
impious  fraud.     Some  of   tliem  may  have   thus    deceivei^ 


1  ft  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

themselves,  as  well  as  othersi  Yet  it  is  certain,  no  book  that 
ever  was  written  by  the  most  acute  of  these  gentlemen,  is  so 
repugnant  to  priestcraft,  1o  spiritual  tyranny,  to  all  absurd 
superstitions,  to  all  that  can  tend  to  disturb  or  injure  society, 
as  that  gospel  they  so  much  affect  to  despise. 

Bnyle.  Mankind  are  so  made,  that,  when  they  have  been 
over-heated,  they  cannot  be  brought  to  a  proper  temper  again, 
till  they  have  been  over-cooled.  My  scepticism  might  be 
necessary  to  abate  the  fever  and  phrenzy  of  false  religion. 

Locke.  A  wise  prescription,  indeed,  to  bring  on  a  paralyt- 
ica! state  of  the  mind,  (for  such  a  scepticism  as  yours  is  a 
palsy,  which  deprives  the  mind  of  all  vigour,  and  deadens 
its  natural  and  vital  powers,!  in  order  to  take  off  a  fever, 
which  temperance,  and  the  milk;  of  the  evangelical  doctrines, 
would  proijabiy  cure ! 

Bayle.  I  acknowledge  that  those  medicines,  have  a  great 
power.  But  few  doctors  apply  them  untainted  with  the  mix- 
ture of  some  harsher  drugs,  or  some  unsafe  and  ridiculous 
nostrums  of  their  own. 

Locke.  What  you  now  say  is  too  true. — God  has  given  us 
a  most  excellent  physic  for  the  soul,  in  all  its  diseases ;  but 
bad  and  interested  physicians,  or  ignorant  and  conceited 
quacks,  administer  it  so  ill  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  that  much 
of  the  benefit  of  it  is  unhappily  lost.         lord  lyttletow 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

SECTION  I. 

Cicero  against  Verres. 

THE  time  is  come,  Fathers,  when  that  which  has  long 
been  wished  for,  towards  allaying  the  envy  your  order  has 
been  subject  to,  and  removing  the  imputations  against  tri- 
als, is  effectually  put  in  your  power.  Anopinionhaslongpre- 
vailed,  not  only" here  at  home,  but  likewise  in  foreign  coun- 
tries, both  dangerous  to  you,  and  pernicious  to  the  stale, — 
that,  in  prosecutions,  men  of  wealth  are  always  safe,  howev- 
er c'earh'  coirVicted. 

2  There  is  now  to  be  brought  upon  bis  trial  before  you,  to  the 
confusion,  I  hope,  of  the  propagators  of  this  slanderous  impu- 
tation, one  whose  life  and  actions,  condemn  him  in  the  opin- 
ion of  impartial  persons ;  but  who.  according  to  his  own  reck- 
oning, and  declared  dependence  upon  his  riches,  is  already 
acquitted:  I  meanCaius  Verres.  I  demand  justice  of  you. 
Fathers,  upon  the  robber  of  the  public  treasury,  the  oppressor 


Chap,  Q.  Public  Speeches.  113 

of  Asia  Minor  and  Pamphylia,  the  invader  of  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  Romans,  the  scourge  and  curse  of  Sicily. 

3  If  that  sentence  is  passed  upon  him  which  his  crimes 
deserve,  your  authority,  Fathers,  will  be  venerable  and  sa- 
cred in  the  eyes  of  the  public:  but  if  his  great  riches  should 
bias  3'ou  in  his  favour,  I  shall  still  gain  one  point, — to  make 
it  apparent  to  all  the  world,  that  what  was  wanting  in  this 
case,  was  not  a  criminal  nor  a  prosecutor,  but  justice  aud 
adeij[uate  punishment. 

4  To  pass  over  the  shameful  irregularities  of  his  youth, 
what  does  his  quajstorship,  the  first  public  employment  he 
held,  what  does  it  exhibit,  but  one  continued  scene  of  villa- 
nies?  Cueius  Carbo,  plundered  of  the  public  money  by  his 
own  treasurer,  a  consul  stripped  and  betrayed,  an  arm)'  de- 
serted and  reduced  to  want,  a  province  robbed,  thecivUand 
religious  rights  of  a  people  violated. 

5  The  employment  he  held  in  Asia  Minor  and  Pamphylia, 
what  did  it  produce  but  the  ruin  of  those  countries ?  in 
which  houses,  cities,  and  temples,  were  robbed  by  him. 
What  was  his  conduct  in  his  prastorship  here  at  home?  Let 
the  plundered  temples,  and  public  works  neglected,  that  he 
might  embezzle  the  money  intended  for  carrying  them  on, 
hear  witness.  IIuw  did  he  discharge  the  office  of  a  judge? 
Let  those  who  suffered  by  his  injustice  answer. 

6  But  his  pnetorship  in  Sicily,  crowns  all  his  works  of 
wickedness,  and  finishes  a  lasting  monument  to  his  infamy. 
The  mischiefs  done  by  him  in  that  unhappy  country,  during 
the  three  3'ears of  his  Iniquitous  administration,  are  such,  that 
many  years,  under  the  wisest  andbest  of  prostors,  will  not  be 
sufficient  to  restore  things  to  the  condition  in  which  he  found 
them :  for  it  is  notorious,  that,  during  the  time  of  his  tyranny, 
the  Sicilians  neither  enjoyed  tlie  protection  of  their  own  origi- 
nal laws;  of  the  regulations  made  for  their  benefit  by  the  Ro- 
man senate,  upon  their  coming  under  the  protection  of  the  com- 
monwealth ;  norof  the  naturalajidunalienable  rights  of  men. 

7  His  nod  has  decided  all  causes  in  Sicily  for  these  three 
years.  And  his  decisions  have  broken  all  law,  all  precedent, 
all  right.  The  sums  he  has,  by  arbitrary  taxes  and  unheard- 
of  impositions,  extorted  from  the  industrious  poor,  are  not 
to  be  computed. 

8  The  most  faithful  alliesof  the  commonwealth,  have  been 
treated  as  enemies.  Roman  citizens  have,  like  slaves,  been 
put  to  death  with  tortures.  The  most  atrocious  criminals, 
for  money,  have  been  exempted  from  the  deserved  punish- 
ments ;  and  men  of  the  most  unexceptionable  characters, 
condemned  and  banished  unheard. 

K2 


J 14  Ttu  English  Reader.  Part  t. 

9  The  harbours,  though  sufficiently  fortified,  and  the  gates 
of  stronf^  towns,  have  been  opened  to  pirates  and  ravag-eis. 
The  soldiery  and  sailors,  belonging  to  a  province  under  tie 
protection  of  the  coininonwealtli,  have  been  starved  lo  death  ; 
whole  fleets,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  province,  suffered 
to  perish.  The  ancient  monuments  of  either  Sicilian  or  Bo- 
man  greatness,  the  statues  of  heroes  and  princes,  have  been 
carried  off;  and  the  temples  stripped  of  their  images. 

10  Having,  by  his  iniquitous  sentences,  filled  the  prisons 
with  the  most  industrious  and  deserving  of  the  people,  he 
then  proceeded  to  order  numbers  of  Roman  citizens  to  be 
strangled  in  the  gaols :  so  tliat  the  exclamation,  "  1  am  a  citi- 
zen of  Rome  1"  which  has  often,  intlie  most  distant  regions, 
and  among  the  most  barbarous  people,  been  a  protection, 
was  of  no  service  to  them;  but,  on  the  contrary,  brought  a 
speedier  and  a  more  severe  punishmc-nt  upon  tliem. 

1  i  I  ask  now,  Verres,  what  thou  hast  to  advance  against 
this  charge?  Wilt  thou  pretend  to  deny  it?  Will  thou  pre- 
tend, that  any  thing  false,  that  even  any  thing  aggravated,  is 
alleged  against  thee  ?  Had  any  prince  or  any  state,  com- 
mitted the  same  outrage  against  the  privilegeof  Roman  citi- 
zens, should  we  not  think  we  had  sufficient  gronnd  for  de- 
manding satisfaction  ? 

12  What  punishment  ought,  then,  to  be  inflicted  upon  a 
tyrannical  and  wicked  pra3tor,  who  dared,  at  no  greater  dis- 
tance than  Sicily,  vvithin  sight  of  the  Italian  coast,  to  put  to 
the  infamous  death  of  crucifixion,  that  unfortunate  and  inno- 
cent citizen,  Publius  Gavius  Cosanus,  only  for  his  having  as- 
serted his  privilege  of  citizenship,  and  declared  his  irtention 
of  appealing  to  the  justice  of  his  country,  against  the  cruel 
oppressor,  who  had  unjustly  confined  him  in  prison  at  Syra- 
cuse, whence  he  had  just  made  his  escape? 

13  The  unhappy  man,  arrested  as  lie  was  going  to  embark 
for  his  native  country,  is  brought  before  the  wicked  praetor. 
With  eyes  darting  fury,  and  a  countenance  distorted  with 
cruelty,  he  orders  the  helpless  victim  of  his  rage  to  be  strip- 
ped, and  rods  to  be  brought :  accusing  him,  but  without  the 
least  shadow  of  evidence,  or  even  of  suspicion,  of  having 
come  to  Sicily  as  a  spy. 

14  It  was  in  vain  that  the  unhappy  man  cried  out,  "  I  am 
a  Roman  citizen  :  I  have  served  under  Tju'cius  Pretius,  v/ho 
is  now  at  Panormus,  and  will  attest  my  innocence."  The 
blood-thirsty  prtetor,  deaf  to  all  he  could  urge  in  his  own  de- 
fence., ordered  the  infamous  punishment  to  be  inflicted. 

15  Thus,  Fathers,  was  an  innocentKoinan  citizen  pubhcly 
mangled  with  scourging:  whilst  Uie  only  words  he  uttered, 


Chap.  Q,  Public  Speeches.  115 

amidst  his  cruel  sufferings,  were,  "  I  am  a  Roman  citizen  1" 
Wi'li  these  he  hoped  to  defend  himself  fiom  violence  and  infa- 
mj'.  But  of  so  litte  service  was  this  pri^■iIeg•e  to  him,  lliai, 
wliile  he  was  thus  asserting-  his  citizenship,  the  order  was 
g-iven  for  his  execution, — for  his  execution  upon  the  cross  ! 

16  O  liberty  ! — O  sound  once  delightful  to  every  Roman 
ear  ! — O  sacred  privilege  of  Roman  citizenship  ! — once  sa- 
cred I — now  trampled  upon  I — But  what  tlien  I  Is  it  come 
to  this?  Shall  an  inferiour  magistrate,  a  govcrnour,  who 
holds  his  whole  power  of  the  Roman  people,  in  a  Roman 
province,  within  siglit  of  Italy,  bind,  scourge,  torture  with 
fire  and  red-hot  plates  of  iron,  and  at  last  put  lO  the  infamous 
death  of  the  cross,  a  Roman  citizen  ? 

17  Shall  neither  the  cries  of  innocence  expiring  in  agony, 
nor  the  tears  of  pitying  spectators,  nor  the  majesty  of  the 
Roman  commonwealth,  nor  the  fear  of  the  justice  of  his 
country,  restrain  the  ifcentious  and  wanton  cruelty  of  a 
monster,  vvlio,  in  confidence  of  his  riches,  strikes  at  the  root 
of  liberty,  and  sets  mankind  at  defiance? 

18  I  conclude  with  expressing  my  hopes,  fhat  your  wis- 
dom and  iustice.  Fathers,  will  not,  by  suffering  the  atro- 
cious and  unexampled  iusolence  of  Caius  Verres  to  escape 
due  punishment,  leave  room  to  apprehend  the  danger  of  a 
total  subversion  of  authority,  and  the  introduction  of  gene- 
ral anarchy  and  confusion.  cicero's  orations. 

SECTION  n. 

Speech  o/'Adherbal  to  the  Roman  Senate,  imploring  their 
protection  against  Jugurtha. 

FATHERS  ! 

IT  is  known  to  you,  that  king  Micipsa,  my  father,  on  his 
death-bed,  left  in  charge  to  Jugurtha,  liis  adopted  son,  con- 
/inctly  with  my  unfortunate  brother  Hiempsal  and  myself, 
the  children  of  his  own  body,  the  administration  of  the  king- 
dom of  N  umidia,  directing  us  to  consider  the  senate  and  peo- 
ple of  Rome  as  proprietors  of  it.  He  charged  us  to  use  our 
best  endeavours  to  be  serviceable  to  the  Roman  common- 
wealth ;  assuring  us.  that  your  protection  would  prove  a 
defence  against  all  enemies;  and  would  be  instead  of  ar- 
mies, fortificaticms,  and  treasures. 

2  While  my  brother  and  I,  were  thinking  of  nothing  but 
how  to  regulate  ourselves  according  to  the  directions  of  our 
deceased  father — Jugurtha — tlie  most  infamous  of  mankind  ! 
— breaking  through  all  ties  of  gratitude  and  of  common  hu 
inanity,  and  trampling  on  the  authority  of  the  Roman  com- 


116  The  English  Header.  Pari  I. 

inonweaUli,  procured  the  rnurdcr  of  my  unfortunate  brotlier ; 
and  has  driven  me  from  my  throne  and  native  country,  thou"-h 
lie  knows  I  inherit,  from  my  grandfather  Maisinissa,  and  my 
father  Micipsa,  the  friendship  and  alliance  of  the  Romans 

3  For  a  prince  to  be  reduced,  hy  villany,  to  my  distress- 
ful circumstances,  is  calamity  enough  ;  but  my  misfortunes 
aie  heightened  by  the  consideration — that  I  find  myself  obli- 
ged to  solicit  your  assislar.-cc.  Fathers,  for  the  services  dor;e 
you  by  my  ancestors,  not  for  any  I  have  been  able  to  render 
j'ou  in  my  own  person.  Jugurtha  has  put  it  out  of  my  pow- 
er to  deseive  any  thing  at  your  hands ;  and  has  forced  me  to 
be  burdensome,  before  I  could  be  useful  to  you. 

4  And  yet,  if  I  had  no  j-lea,  but  my  undeserved  misery — 
a  once  powerful  prince,  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  illustri- 
ous monarchs,  now,  without  any  fault  of  my  own,  destitute  of 
every  support,  and  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  begging  for- 
eign assistance,  against  an  enemy  wjio  has  seized  my  throne 
and  my  kingdom — if  my  unequalled  distresses  were  all  I 
had  to  plead — it  would  become  the  greatness  of  trie  Eoman 
commonwealth,  to  piotect  the  injured,  and  to  check  the  tri- 
umph of  daring  wickedness  over  helples  innocence. 

5  But,  to  provoke  your  resentment  to  the  utmost,  Jugur- 
tha has  driven  me  from  the  very  dominions,  which  the  seu 
ate  and  people  of  Rome,  gave  to  my  ancestors ;  and,  from 
which,  my  grandfather,  and  myfather,  under  your  umbrage, 
expelled  Syphsx  and  the  Carthaginians.  Thus,  Fathe)-s, 
your  kindness  to  our  family  is  defeated  ;  and  Jugurtha,  in 
injuring  me,  throws  contempt  upon  you. 

6  O  wretched  prince!  O  cruel  reverse  of  fortune!  Oh 
father  Micipsa  !  Is  this  the  consequence  of  th}  generosity  ; 
that  he,  whom  thy  goodness  raised  to  an  equality  with  thj' 
own  children,  shoidd  be  the  murderer  of  thy  children  ? 
Must,  then,  the  royal  house  of  Kumidia  always  be  a  scene 
of  havoc  and  blood  ? 

7  While  Carthage  remained,  we  suffered,  as  was  to  be 
expected,  all  sorts  of  hardships  from  their  hostile  attacks; 
our  enemy  near  ;  our  only  powerful  ally,  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth, at  a  distance.  When  that  scourge  of  Africa  was 
no  more,  we  congratulated  ourselves  on  the  prospect  of  es- 
tablished peace.  But,  instead  of  peace,  behold  the  k  ngdoni 
of  Numidia  drenched  with  royal  blood  !  and  the  only  surviv- 
ing son  of  its  late  king,  flying  from  an  adopted  irurderer, 
and  seekiug  that  safety  in  foreign  parts,  wb'ch  he  cannot 
command  in  his  own  kingdom. 

8  Whither — Oh!  whither  shall  I  fly  ?  If  I  return  io  the  roy- 
al palace  of  my  ancestors,  my  father's  throne  is  seized  by  tlis 


Chap.  8.  Puhhc  Speeches  117 

murderer  of  my  brother.  What  can  I  there  expect,  but  that 
Jugurtha  should  hasien  to  imbrue,  in  my  blood,  those  hands 
which  are  now  reeking  with  my  brother's?  If  I  were  to  fly 
for  refuge  or  for  assistance  to  any  other  court,  from  what 
prince  can  I  hope  for  protection,  if  toe  Roman  common- 
wealth give  me  up  ?  From  my  own  family  or  friends,  I  have 
no  expectations. 

9  My  royal  father  is  no  more.  He  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
violence,  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  complaints  of  his  unhappy 
son.  Were  my  brother  alive,  our  mutual  sjTnpathy  would 
be  some  alleviation.  But  he  is  hurried  out  of  life,  in  his  ear- 
ly youth,  by  the  very  hand  which  should  have  been  the  last 
to  mjure  any  of  the  royal  family  of  Numidia. 

10  The  bloody  Jugurtha  has  butchered  all  whom  he  sus- 
pected to  be  in  my  interest.  Some  have  been  destroyed  by 
the  lingering  torment  of  the  cross.  Others  have  been  given 
a  prey  to  wild  beasts;  and  their  anguish  made  the  sport  of 
men  more  cruel  than  wild  beasts.  If  there  be  any  yet  alive, 
they  are  shut  up  in  dungeons,  there  to  drag  out  a  life  more 
intolerable  than  death  itself. 

1 1  Look  down,  illustrious  senators  of  Rome  I  from  that 
height  of  power  to  which  you  are  raised,  on  the  unexi^mpled 
distresses  of  a  prince,  who  is,  by  the  cruelty  of  a  wicked  in- 
truder, become  an  outcast  from  all  mankind.  Let  not  the 
crafty  insinuations  of  him  who  returns  murder  for  adoptioi,, 
prejudice  your  judgment.  Do  not  listen  to  the  wretch  who 
has  butchered  the  son  and  relations  of  a  king,  who  gave  him 
power  to  sit  on  the  same  throne  with  his  own  sons. 

12  I  have  been  informed,  that  he  labours  by  his  emissa- 
ries to  prevent  your  determining  any  thing  against  him  in 
his  absence  ;  pretending  that  I  magnify  my  distress,  and 
might,  for  him,  have  staid  in  peace  in  my  own  kingdom. 
But,  if  ever  the  time  comes,  when  the  due  vengeance  from 
above  shall  overtake  him,  he  will  then  dissemble  as  I  do. 
Then  he,  who  now,  hardened  in  wickedness,  triumphs  over 
those  whom  his  violence  has  laid  low,  will,  in  his  turn,  feel  dis- 
tress, and  suffer  for  his  impious  ingratitude  to  my  father,  and 
his  hlood-tliirsty  cruelty  to  my  brother. 

1 3  Oh  murdered,  butchered  brother  i  Oh  dearest  to  my 
heart — now  gone  forever  from  my  sight  I — but  why  should 
I  lament  his  death  .''  He  is,  indeed,  deprived  of  the  blessed 
light  of  heaven,  of  life,  and  kingdom,  at  once,  by  the  very 

fierson  who  ought  to  have  been  the  first  to  hazard  his  ovrn 
ife,  in  defer.ce  of  any  one  of  Micipsa's  family.  But,  as  things 
are,  my  brother  is  not  so  much  deprived  of  these  comforts. 


118  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

as  delivered  from   terror,  from   flight,   from  exile,  and   the 
endless  train  of  miseries  wliicli  rcndei'  life  to  me  a  burden. 

14  He  lies  full  love,  gored  with  wounds,  and  festering  in 
his  own  blood.  But  he  lies  in  peace.  He  feels  none  of  tlie  mi- 
series which  rend  my  swul  with  agony  and  distraction,  while 
I  am  set  up  a  spectacle  to  all  mankind,  of  the  uncertaintj' ol 
human  affairs.  So  far  from  having  it  in  my  power  to  punish 
his  murderer,  I  am  not  master  of  the  means  of  securing  my 
own  life.  So  far  from  being  in  a  condition  to  defend  my 
kingdom  from  the  violence  of  the  usurper,  I  am  obliged  to 
ap}>l3'  for  foreign  protection  for  my  own  person. 

15  Fathers  !  Senators  of  Rome  I  the  arbiters  of  nations  ! 
to  you  I  fly  for  refuge  from  the  murderous  fury  of  .lugurtLa. 
— By  your  affection  for  your  children  ;  by  your  love  for 
your  country;  by  your  own  virtues  ;  by  the  majesty  of  the 
Roman  commonwealth  ;  by  all  tliat  is  sacred,  and  all  that  is 
dear  to  you — deliver  a  wretched  prince  from  undeserved, 
unprovoked  injury  ;  and  save  the  kingdom  of  Numidia,  which 
is  your  own  property,  from  being  the  prey  of  violence,  usui  - 
pation,  and  cruelty.  sallust. 

SECTION  ni. 

TAe  Apostle  Paul's noWefZc/encefte/breFESTUS  4' Agrippa 
AGRIPPA  said  unto  Paul,  thou  art  permitted  to  speak 
for  thyself. — Then  Paul  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  an- 
swered for  himself.  I  think  myself  happj',  king  Agrippa, 
because  I  shall  answer  for  myself  this  day  before  thee, 
concerning  all  'he  things  whereof  I  am  accused  by  the  Jews  : 
especially,  as  I  know  thee  to  be  expert  in  all  customs  and 
questions  which  are  among  the  Jews.  Wherefore  I  beseech 
thee  to  hear  me  patiently. 

2  My  manner  of  life  from  my  youth,  which  \va.s  at  the 
first  among  my  own  nation  at  Jerusalem,  know  all  the  Jews, 
who  knew  me  from  the  beginning,  (if  they  would  testify,) 
that  after  the  strictest  sect  of  our  religion,  I  lived  a  Pharisee. 
And  now  I  stand  and  am  judged  for  the  hope  of  the  promise 
made  by  God  to  our  fathers  ;  to  which  promise,  our  twelve 
♦.ribes,  continually  serving  God  day  and  night,  hope  to  come : 
and,  for  this  hope's  sake,  king  Agrippa,  I  am  accused  by 
the  Jews. 

3  Why  should  it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible  with  you, 
that  God  should  raise  the  dead  ?  I  verily  thought  with  myself, 
that  I  ought  to  do  many  things  contrary  to  the  name  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth :  and  this  t  did  in  Jerusalem.  Many  of  the  saints 
I  shut  up  in  prison,  having  received  authoriiy  from  the 
chief  priests  :  and  when  they  were  put  to  death,'  I  gave  my 


Chap.  R.  Puhlic  Speeches.  1t9 

voice  ag-ainst  them.  And  I  often  punished  them  in  every 
sviiag-osjue,  and  compelled  them  tn  blasphem.e ;  and  being' 
exceeding'!}' mad  against  them,  I  persecuted  them  even  unto 
strange  cities. 

4  But  as  I  went  to  Damascus,  with  authority  and  com- 
mission from  the  chief  priests,  ut  mid-day,  Oh  king  1  I  saw 
m  the  way  a  light  from  heaven,  above  the  brightness  of  the 
sun,  shining  round  about  me,  and  them  who  journeyed  with 
me.  And  when  we  were  all  fallen  to  the  earth,  f  heard  a 
voice  speaking  to  me  and  saying,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 
Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  me?  It  is  hard  for  thee  to 
kick  against  the  pricks.  And  I  said,  who  art  thou,  Lord^ 
And  he  replied,  I  am  Jesus  whom  thou  persecutest. 

5  But  rise,  and  stand  upon  thy  feet:  for  I  have  appeared 
totheefor  this  purpose,  to  make  thee  a  minister,  and  a  wit- 
ness both  of  tliese  things  which  thou  hast  seen,  and  of  those 
things  in  which  I  will  appear  to  thee ;  delivering  thee  from  the 
people,  and  from  the  Gentiles,  to  whom  I  now  send  thee, 
to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  turn  them  from  darkness  to  light. 
And  from  the  power  of  Satan  to  God,  that  they  may  receive 
forgiveness  of  sms,  and  inheritance  amongst  them  who  are 
sanctified  by  faith  that  is  in  me. 

6  Whereupon,  O  king  Agrippa  !  I  was  not  disobedient  to 
the  heavenly  vision;  but  showed  first  to  them  of  Damascus, 
and  at  Jerusalem,  and  through  all  the  coasts  of  Judea,  and 
then  to  the  Gentiles,  that  they  should  repent,  and  turn  to 
God,  and  do  works  meet  for  repentance.  For  these  causes, 
the  Jews  caught  me  in  the  temple,  and  wei/t  about  to  kill 
me.  Having,  however,  obtained  help  from  God,  I  continue 
to  this  day,  witnessing  both  to  small  and  great,  saying  no 
other  things  than  those  which  the  prophets  and  Moses  de- 
clared should  come :  that  Christ  should  suffer;  that  he  would 
be  the  first  who  should  rise  from  the  dead;  and  that  he  would 
show  light  to  t!ie  people,  and  to  the  Gentiles. 

7  And  as  he  thus  spoke  for  himself.  Festus  said,  with  a 
loud  voice,  "Paul,  thou  art  beside  thyself;  much  learning 
hath  made  thee  mad."  But  he  replied,  1  am  not  mad,  most 
noble  Festus:  but  speak  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness. 
For  the  king  knoweth  these  things,  before  whom  1  also  speak 
freely.  I  am  persuaded  that  noneof  ttiese  things  are  hidden 
from  him :  for  this  thing  was  not  done  in  a  corner.  King 
Agrippa,  believest  thou  the  prophets  ■*  I  know  that  thou  be- 
lievest.  Then  Agrippa  said  to  Paul,  "Almost  thou  per- 
suadest  me  to  be  a  Christian."  And  Paul  replied,  "  1  would 
to  God,  that  not  only  thou,   but  also  all  Uiat  hear  me  this 


120  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

day,  were  both  almost,  and  altogether  such  as  I  am,  except 
these  bonds."*  acts  xxvi. 

SECTION  IV. 
Lord  MAysFiEi.D''s speechinthe Hotiseof  Peers,  lTlO,ontk€ 
bill/or  preventing  the  delays  of  justice,  by  claiming  the  Pri- 
vilege of  Parliament. 

MV  LORDS, 

WHEN  I  consider  the  importance  of  this  bill  to  your 
iordshi])s,  I  am  not  surprised  it  has  taken  up  so  much  of  your 
consideration.  It  is  a  bill,  indeed,  of  no  common  mag^ni- 
tnde;  it  is  no  less  than  to  take  away  from  two  thirds  of  the 
legislative  body  of  this  great  kingdom,  certain  privileges  and 
immunities  of  which  they  have  been  long  possessed.  Per- 
haps there  is  no  situation  the  human  mind  can  be  placed  in, 
that  is  so  difficult  and  so  trying,  as  when  it  is  made  a  judge 
in  its  own  cause. 

1  There  is  something  implanted  in  the  breast  of  rnan,  so 
attached  to  self,  so  tenacious  of  privileges  once  obtained,  that 
in  such  a  situation,  either  to  discuss  with  impartiality,  or  de- 
cide with  justice,  has  ever  been  held  the  summit  of  all  human 
virtue.  The  bill  now  in  question,  puts  your  lordships  in  this 
very  predicament ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  wisdom  of  youi 
decision  will  convince  the  world,  that  where  self-interest 
and  justice,  are  in  opposite  scales,  the  latter  will  ever  pre- 
ponderate with  your  lordships. 

3  Privileges  have  been  granted  to  legislators  in  all  ages, 
and  in  all  countries.  The  practice  is  founded  in  wisdom; 
and,  fndeed,  it  is  peculiarly  essential  to  the  constitution  of 
this  country,  that  the  members  of  both  houses  should  be  free 
in  their  persons,  in  cases  of  civil  suits  :  for  there  mav  come  a 
time  when  the  safety  and  welfare  of  this  whole  empire,  may 
depend  upon  their  attendance  in  parliajnent.  I  am  far 
from  advising  any  measure  that  would  in  future  endanger 
the  state  :  but  the  bill  before  your  lordships  has,  I  am  confi- 
dent, no  such  tendency;  for  it  expressly  secures  the  persons 
of  members  of  either  house  in  all  civil  suits. 

4  This  being  the  case,  I  confess,  when  I  see  many  noble 
lords,  for  whose  judgment  I  have  a  very  great  respect, 
stpnding  up  to  oppose  a  bill  u'hich  is  calculated  merely  to 
facilitate  the  recoverj'  of  just  and  legal  debts,  lam  astonish- 
ed and  amazed. 

*  How  liappy  was  this  great  Apostie,  even  in  the  most  perilous  cir- 
cumstances 1  Though  under  boiiris  and  oppression,  his  mind  was  free, 
and  raised  aboveeven,'  fearof  man.  With  what  dignity  and  composure 
does  he  defend  himself,  and  the  noble  cause  he  had  espoused  ,  whilst 
lie  displays  the  most  compassionate  and  generous  feelings,  for  those  wl»u 
were  slrangers  to  the  sublime  religion  by  w  hich  he  was  zmiiuated  ' 


Chap.  8.  Public  Speeches.  121 

They,  I  doubt  not, oppose  the  bill  upon  public  principles: 
!  would  not  wish  to  insinuate,  that  private  interest  had  tlie 
least  weight  in  their  determination. 

5  The  bill  has  been  frequently  proposed,  and  as  frequently 
has  miscarried:  but  it  was  always  lost  in  the  lower  house. 
Little  did  I  think,  when  it  had  passed  the  Commons,  that  it 
possibly  could  have  met  with  such  opposition  here.  Shall  it 
be  said,  that  you,  my  lords,  the  grand  council  of  the  hation, 
the  highest  judicial  and  legislative  body  of  the  realm,  endeav- 
our to  evade,  by  privilege,  those  very  laws  which  you  en- 
force on' your  feUow  subjects?  Forbid  it  justice  I — I  amsuro 
were  the  noble  lords  as  well  acquainted  as  I  am,  with  bul 
half  the  difficulties  and  delays  occasioned  in  the  courts  of 
justice,  under  pretence  of  privilege,  they  would  not,  nay, 
tliey  could  not,  oppose  this  bill. 

6  I  have  waited  with  patience  to  hear  what  arguments 
might  be  urged  against  this  bill ;  but  I  have  waited  in  vain  : 
the  truth  is,  there  is  no  argument  that  can  weigh  against  it. 
The  justice  and  exf>ediency  of  the  bill,  are  such  as  render  it 
self-evident.  It  is  a  proposition  of  that  nature,  which  can 
neither  be  weakened  by  argument,  nor  entangled  with  so- 
phistry. Much,  indeed,  has  been  said  by  some  noble  lords, 
on  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  and  how  differently  they 
thought  from  us.  They  not  only  decreed,  that  privilege 
should  prevent  all  civil  suits  from  proceeding  during  the  sit- 
ting of  parliament,  but  likewise  granted  protection  to  the 
very  servants  of  members.  I  shall  say  nothing  on  the 
wisdom  of  our  ancestors:  it  might  perhaps  appear  invidious: 
that  is  not  necessary  in  the  present  case. 

7  I  shall  only  say,  that  the  noble  lords  who  flatter  them- 
selves with  the  weight  of  that  reflection,  should  remember, 
that  as  circumstances  alter,  things  themselves  should  alter. 
Formerl}',  it  was  not  so  fashionable  either  for  masters  or  ser- 
vants to  run  in  debt,  as  it  is  at  present.  Formerly,  we  were 
not  that  great  commercial  nation  we  are  at  present ;  nor 
fonnerly  were  merchants  and  manufacturers  members  of 
parliament  as  at  present.  The  case  is  now  very  different : 
both  merchants  and  manufacturers  arc,  with  great  propriety, 
elected  members  of  the  lower  house. 

8  ( 'ominerce  having  th'is  got  into  the  legislative  body  of  the 
kiugiiom,  privilege  must  be  done  away.  We  all  know,  that 
;he  very  soul  and  essence  of  trade,  are  reguhir  pavinents, 
and  sad  experience  teaches  us,  that  ttiere  are  men,  who  wi'l 
iiDt  make  thair  regular  payments  without  the  compulsive  pow- 
er of  the  laws.     The  law  then  ought  to  be  equally  opeu  to  all. 


122  Tke  EnglishReader.  Parti. 

Any  exemption  to  particular  men,  or  particular  ranks  of  men. 
is,   in  a  free   and   commercial  count}',  a  solecism  of  the 

grossest  nature. 

9  But  I  will  not  trouble  your  lordships  with  arg-umcnts  for 
that,  which  is  sufficiently  evident  without  any.  1  shall  only 
say  a  few  words  to  some  noble  lords,  who  foresee  much  in- 
conveoieoce,  from  the  persons  of  their  servants  being-  liable 
to  be  arrested.  One  noble  lord  observes.  That  the  coach- 
man of  a  peer  may  be  arrested,  while  he  is  driving  his  master 
to  the  House,  and  that,  consequently,  he  will  not  be  able  to 
attend  his  duty  in  parliament.  If  this  were  actually  to  hap- 
pen, there  are  so  many  methods  by  wjiich  the  member  might 
still  get  to  the  House,  that  I  can  hardly  think  the  noble  lord 
is  serious  in  his  objection. 

10  Another  noble  peer  said.  That,  by  this  bill,  one  might 
lose  his  most  valuable  and  honest  servants.  This  I  hold  lo 
be  a  contradiction  in  terms:  for  he  can  neither  be  a  valuable 
servant,  nor  an  honest  man,  who  gets  into  debt,  which  he 
is  neither  able  nor  willing  to  pay,  till  compelled  by  the  law. 
If  my  servant,  by  unforeseen  accidents',  has  got  inlo  debt, 
and  [still  wish  to  retain  htm, I  certainly  would  pay  the  de- 
mand. But  upon  no  principle  ofliberaJ  legislation  wliatev 
er,  can  my  servant  have  a  title  to  set  his  creditors  at  defiance., 
while,  for  fort}'  shillings  only,  the  hones*'  tradesman  moy  he 
torn  from  his  family,  and  locked  up  in  a  gaol.  It  is  mon- 
strous injustice!  I  flatter  myself,  however,  the  determination 
of  this  day,  will  entirely  put  an  end  to  all  these  partial  pro- 
ceedings for  the  future,  by  passing  into  a  law  the  bill  now 
under  your  lordships'  consideration. 

11  1  now  come  to  speak  upon  what,  indeed,  I  would  have 
gladly  avoided,  had  I  not  been  particularly  pointed  at,  for  the 
part  I  have  taken  in  this  bill.  It  has  been  said,  by  a  noble 
lord  on  my  left  hand,  that  I  likewise  am  running  the  race  ot 
popularity.  If  the  noble  lord  means  by  popularity,  that  ap- 
plsuse  bestowed  by  after-ages  on  good  and  virtuous  actions, 
I  have  long  been  struggling  in  that  race:  to  what  purpose, 
all-trying  time  can  alone  determine. 

12  But  if  the  noble  lord  means  that  mushroom  popularity, 
which  is  raised  without  merit,  and  lost  without  a  crime,  he 
is  much  misfatcen  in  his  opinion.  I  defy  the  noble  lord  to 
point  out  a  single  action  of  my  life,  in  which  the  popularity 
of  the  times  ever  had  the  smallest  influence  on  my  determi- 
nations. I  thank  God,  I  have  a  more  permanent  and  steady 
rule  for  my  cor.duct, — the  dictates  of  my  own  breast. 

13  Those  wiio  have  foiegone  that  pleasing  adviser,  and  triven 
up  tlieir  mind  to  be  tlie  slave  of  every  jiopular  impulse,  1  sin- 


Chap.  8  Public  Speeches.  23 

cerely  pity  r  I  pity  them  still  more,  if  their  vanity  leads  them 
to  mistake  the  shouts  of  a  mob  for  the  trumpet  of  fame. — 
Experience  might  inform  them,  that  many,  who  have  been 
saluted  with  the  huzzas  of  a  crowd  one  day,  have  received 
their  execrations  the  next ;  and  many,  who,  by  tlie  popula 
rity  of  their  times,  have  been  held  up  as  spotless  patriots, 
have,  nevertheless,  appeared  upon  the  historian's  pag'e,  when 
truth  has  triumphed  over  delusion,  the  assassins  of  liberty. 

14  Why  then  the  noble  lord  can  think  I  am  ambitious  of 
present  popularity,  +hat  echo  of  folly,  and  shadow  of  renown, 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  determine.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  that 
the  bdl  now  before  your  lordships,  will  be  popular:  it  de- 
pends much  upon  the  caprice  of  the  day.  It  may  not  be 
popular  to  compel  people  to  pay  their  debts  ;  and,  in  that 
case,  the  present  must  be  a  very  unpopular  bill. 

15  It  may  not  be  popular  either  to  take  away  any  of  the 
privileg'es  of  parliament;  for  I  very  w-ell  remember,  and 
many  of  your  lordships  may  remember,  that,  not  long'  ag"o, 
the  popular  cry  was  for  the  extension  of  privilege ;  and  so  far 
did  they  carry  it  at  that  time,  that  it  was  said,  the  privilege 
protected  members  even  in  criminal  actions ;  nay,  such  was 
..he  power  of  popular  prejudices  over  weak  minds,  that  the 
very  decision  of  some  of  tlie  courts,  were  tinctured  with  that 
doctrine.  It  was  undoubtedly  an  abominable  doctrine.  I 
thought  so  then,  and  I  think  so  still:  but,  nevertheless,  it 
was  a  popular  doctrine,  and  came  immediately  from  those 
who  are  called  the  friends  of  liberty  ;  how  deservedly,  time 
will  show. 

16  True  liberty,  in  my  opinion,  can  only  exist  when  jus- 
tice is  equally  administered  to  all ;  to  the  king  and  to  the  beg- 
gar. Where  is  the  justice  then,  or  where  is  the  law,  that  pro- 
tects a  member  of  parliament,  more  than  any  other  man,  from 
the  punishment  due  to  his  crimes?  The  laws  of  this  country 
allow  of  no  place,  nor  any  employment,  to  be  a  sanctuary  for 
crimes  ;  and  where  I  have  the  honour  to  sit  as  judge,  neither 
royal  favour,  nor  popular  applause,  shall  protect  the  guilty. 

17  I  have  now  onlj'  to  beg  pardon  for  having  employed  po 
much  of  your  lordships'  time  ;  and  am  sorry  a  bill,  fraught 
with  so  many  good  consequences,  has  not  met  with  an  abler 
advocate  :  but  1  doubt  not  j'our  lordships'  determination 
will  convince  the  world,  that  a  bill,  calculated  to  contribute 
so  much  to  the  equal  distribution  of  justice  as  the  piescnt, 
requires  with  your  lordships  but  very  little  support. 


124  The  Englifh  Reader.  Part  I. 

SECTION  V. 

An  address  to  young  persons. 

1  INTEND,  in  this  address,  to  shovr  you  the  importance 
of  beginning  earlj  to  give  serious  attention  to  your  conduct. 
As  soon  as  you  are  capable  of  reflection,  you  must  perceive 
that  there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  in  human  actions.  You 
see,  that  those  who  are  born  with  the  same  advantages  of 
fortune,  are  not  all  equally  prosperous  in  the  course  of  life. 
While  some  of  them,  by  wise  and  steady  conduct,  attain  dis- 
tinction in  the  world,  and  pass  their  days  with  comfort  and 
honour;  others,  of  the  same  rank,  by  mean  and  vicious  be- 
haviour, forfeit  the  advantages  of  their  bir<h;  involve  them- 
selves in  much  misery  ;  and  end  in  being  a  disgrace  to  their 
friends,  and  a  burden  on  societj'. 

2  Early,  then,  may  you  learn,  that  it  is  not  on  the  exter- 
nal condition  in  which  you  find  yourselves  placed,  but  on  the 
part  which  you  are  to  act,  that  your  welfare  or  unhappiness, 
your  honour  or  infamy,  depends.  Now,  when  beginning  to 
act  that  part,  what  can  be  of  greater  moment,  than  to  regu- 
late your  plan  of  conduct  with  the  most  serious  attention, 
before  you  have  committed  any  fatal  or  irretrievable  er- 
rours? 

fj  If,  instead  of  exerting  reflection  for  this  valuable  pur- 
pose, you  deliver  yourselves  up,  at  so  critical  a  time,  to  sloth 
and  pleasures  ;  if  you  refuse  to  listen  to  any  counsellor  but 
humour,  or  to  attend  to  any  pursuit  except  that  of  amuse- 
ment; if  you  allow  3'ourselves  to  float  loose  and  careless  on 
tlie  tide  of  life,  ready  to  receive  any  direction  which  the  cur- 
rent of  fashion  may  chance  to  give  you  :  what  can  you  ex- 
pect to  follow  from  such  beginnings  ? 

4  While  so  many  around  you,  are  undergoing  the  sad  con- 
sequences of  a  like  indiscretion,  for  wha*  reason  shall  not 
those  consequences  extend  to  you  ?  Shall  you  attain  success 
without  that  preparation,  and  escape  dangers  without  that 
precaution,  which  are  required  of  others?  Shall  happiness 
grow  up  to  you,  of  its  own  accord,  and  solicit  vour  accep- 
tance, when,  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  it  is  the  Iruit  of  long 
cultivation,  and  the  acquisition  of  labour  and  care? 

5  Deceive  not  yourselves  with  those  arrogant  hopes. — 
Whatever  be  your  rank,  Providence  will  not,  for  your  sake, 
reverse  its  established  order.  The  Author  of  your  being 
hath  enjoined  you  to  "  take  heed  to  your  ways ;  to  ponder 
the  paths  of  your  feet ;  to  remember  your  Creator  in  the 
davs  of  your  youth." 

6  He  hath  decreed,  that  they  only  "who  seek  after  wis- 


Chap.  8.  Ptiblio,  Speeches.  125 

dom,  shall  find  it ;  that  fools  shall  be  afflicted,  because  of 
their  transgressions ;  and  that  wliosoever  refuseth  instruc- 
tion, s!iall  destro}'  his  own  soul."  By  listening  to  thete  ad- 
monitions, and  tempering  the  vivacity  of  youth  with  a  pro- 
per mixture  of  serious  thought,  you  may  ensure  cheerfulness 
for  the  rest  of  hfe;  but  by  delivering-  yourselves  up  at  j)re- 
sent  to  giddiness  and  levity,  you  lay  the  foundation  of  lasting 
heaviness  of  heart. 

7  When  you  look  forward  to  those  plans  of  life,  which 
either  your  circumstances  have  suggested,  or  your  friends 
have  proposed,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  acknowledge,  that 
in  (>i-(!er  to  pursue  them  with  advantage,  some  previous  dis- 
cipline is  requisite.  Be  assured,  that  whatever  is  to  be  your 
profession,  no  education  is  more  necessary  to  yoiir  success, 
than  the  acquirement  of  virtuous  dispositions  and  habits. — 
Tliis  is  the  universal  preparation  for  every  chaiacter,  and 
every  station  in  life. 

8  Bad  as  the  world  is,  respect  is  always  paid  to  virtue.  In 
the  usual  course  of  human  affairs,  it  will  be  found,  that  a 
plain  understanding,  joined  with  acknowledged  worth,  con- 
tributes more  to  prosperitj-,  than  the  brightest  parts  without 
probity  or  honour.  Whether  science  or  business,  or  pub- 
lic life,  be  your  aim,  virtue  still  enters,  for  a  principal  share, 
into  all  those  great  depailmfnts  of  society.  It  is  connected 
with  eminence,  in  every  liberal  art;  with  reputation,  in 
every  branch  of  fair  ana  useful  business  ;  with  distinction, 
in  every  public  station. 

9  The  vigour  which  it  gives  the  mind,  and  the  weight 
which  it  adds  to  character  ;  the  generous  sentiments  which 
it  breathes ;  the  undaunted  spirit  whicli  it  inspires  ;  the  ar- 
dour of  diligence  which  it  quickens;  tiie  freedom  which  it 
procures  from  pernicious  and  dishonourable  avocations;  are 
the  foundations  of  all  that  is  highly  honourable,  or  greatly 
successful  among  men. 

10  Whatever  ornamental  or  enf,aging  endowments  you  now 
possess,  virtue  is  a  necessary  requisite,  in  order  to  their  shin- 
ing with  proper  lustre.  Feeble  are  the  attractio;  s  of  the 
fairest  form,  if  it  be  suspected  that  nothing  within,  corres- 
ponds to  the  pleasing  appearance  without.  Short  are  the 
triumphs  of  wit,  wheq  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  vehicle  of  ma- 
lice. 

1 1  By  whatever  means  you  may  at  first  attract  the  altention, 
you  can  hold  the  esteem, and  secure  the  hearts  of  others,only 
by  amiable  dispositions,  and  the  accomplishments  of  the  mind. 
Tliese  are  the  qualities  whose  influence  will  last,  when  th? 
lustre  of  all  that  once  sparkled  and  dazzled  has  passed  away. 


126  The  English  Reader  Parti. 

12  Let  not  then  the  season  of  youth  be  barren  of  improve- 
ments, so  esssential  to  jour  (ulure  felicity  and  honour. 
JN'ovv  is  the  seed-time  of  life;  and  accordmg  to  "what  you 
sow,  you  .shall  reap."  Your  character  is  now,  under  Divine 
Assistance,  of  your  own  forming;  your  fate,  is  in  some  mea- 
sure, put  into  j'our  own  hands. 

13  Your  nature  is  as  yet  pliant  and  soft.  Habits  have  not 
established  tlieir  domionion.  Prejudices  have  not  pre-occu- 
pied  your  understanding.  The  world  has  not  bad  time  to 
contract  and  debase  your  aflections.  All  your  powers  are 
more  vigorous,  disembarrassed,  and  free,  than  they  will  be 
at  any  future  period. 

14  Whatever  impulse  you  now  give  to  your  desires  and 
passions,  the  direction  is  likely  to  continue.  It  will  form  the 
channel  in  which  your  life  is  to  run  ;  nay,  it  may  determine 
Its  everlasting  issue.  Consider,  then,  the  employment  of 
this  important  period,  as  the  highest  trust  which  shall  ever 
be  committed  to  you  ;  as  in  a  great  measure,  decisive  of 
3'our  happiness  in  time,  and  in  eternity. 

15  As  in  the  succession  of  the  seasons,  each,  by  the  inva- 
riable laws  of  nature,  a/iects  the  productions  of  what  is  next 
m  course  ;  so,  in  human  life,  every  period  ofour  age,  accord- 
ing as  it  is  well  or  ill  s[)eut,  influences  the  happiness  of  that 
which  is  to  follow.  Virtuous  youth,  gradually  brings  for- 
ward accomplished  and  flourishing  manhood ;  and  such  man- 
hood, passes  of  itself,  without  uneasiness,  into  respectable 
and  tranquil  old  age. 

16  But  when  nature  is  turned  out  of  its  regular  course, 
disorder  takes  place  in  the  moral,  just  as  in  the  vegetable 
world.  If  the  spring  put  forth  no  blossoms,  in  summer  tliere 
wilt  be  no  beauty,  and  in  autumn,  no  fruit :  so,  if  youth 
be  trifled  away  witliout  improvement,  manhood  will  proba- 
bly be  contemptible,  and  old  age  miserable.  If  the  begin- 
nings of  life  have  been  '•  vanity,"  its  latter  end  can  scarcely 
be  any  other  than  "  vexation  of  spirit." 

17  i  shall  finish  this  address,  with  calling  your  attention  to 
that  dependance  on  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  which,  amidst  all 
your  endeavours  after  improvement,  you  ought  continually 
to  preserve.  It  is  too  common  with  the  young,  even  when 
they  resolve  to  tread  the  path  of  virtue  and  honour,  to  set  out 
with  presumptuous  confidence  in  themselves. 

18  Trusting  to  their  own  abilities  *o  carry  them  success- 
fully through  life,  they  are  careless  of  applying  to  God,  or 
of  deriving  any  assistance  from  what  they  are  apt  to  reckon 
the  gloomy  discipline  of  reLgion.  Alas  I  how  little  do  they 
kooir  the  dangers  which  await  them  ?  N  either  human  -visdom, 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  127 

nor  human  virtue,  unsupported  by  religion,  is  equal  to  the 
trying-  situations  which  often  occur  in  life. 

19  By  the  shock  of  ternptaiion,  how  frequently  have  the 
most  virtuous  intentions  been  overthrown?  Under  the  pres- 
sure of  disascer,  how  often  has  the  greatest  constancy  sunk? 
"  Every  good,  and  every  perfect  gift,  is  from  above."  Wis- 
dom and  virtue,  as  well  as  "  riches  and  honour,  come  from 
God."  Destitute  of  his  favour,  you  are  in  no  better  situation, 
with  all  your  boasted  abilities,  than  orphans  left  to  wander  in 
a  ti-ackiess  desert,  without  any  guide  to  conduct  them,  or 
any  shelter  to  cover  them  from  the  gathering  storm. 

20  Correct,  then,  this  ill-founded  arrogance.  Expect  not, 
that  )"our  happiness  can  be  independent  of  Him  who  made 
you.  By  faith  and  repentance,  apply  to  the  Reedeemer  of 
the  v/orld.  By  piety  and  prayer,  seek  the  protection  of  the 
God  of  heaven. 

21  I  conclude  with  the  solemn  words,  in  which  a  great 
prince  delivered  his  dying  charge  to  his  son:  words, 
u'liich  every  young  person  ought  to  consider  as  addressed  to 
himself,  and  to  engrave  deeply  on  his  heart:  '•  Solomon, my 
son,  know  thou  the  God  of  thy  fathers;  and  serve  him  with 
a  perfect  heart,  and  with  a  willing  mind.  For  the  Lord 
se-archeth  all  hearts,  and  understandeth  all  the  imaginations 
of  the  thoughts.  If  thou  seek  him,  he  will  be  found  of  thee ; 
but  iftbou  forsake  him,  he  will  cast  thee  off  for  ever." — blair. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Earthquake  at  Calabria,  in  the  year  1638. 
AN  account  of  this  dreadful  earthquake,  is  given  by  the 
celebrated  father  Kirrher.  It  happened  whilst  he  was  on 
his  journey  to  visit  Mount  jEtna,  and  the  rest  of  the  won- 
ders that  lie  towards  the  South  of  Italy.  Kirclier  is  consider- 
ed, by  scholars,  ai  one  of  the  greatest  prodigies  of  learning. 
"Having  hired  a  boat,  in  company  with  four  more,  (two 
friars  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  and  two  seculars,)  we 
launched  from  the  harbour  of  Messina,  Sicily,  and  arrived, 
the  same  day,  at  the  promontory  of  Pelorus.  Our  destina- 
tion was  for  the  city  of  Eupehamia,  in  C^alabria,  where  we 
had  some  business  to  transact,  and  where  we  designed  to 
tarry  for  some  time. 

2  "However,  Providence  seemed  willing  to  cross  our  de- 
sign ;  lor  we  were  obuged  to  continue  three  days  at  Pelorus, 


128  The  English  Header.  Pari  1. 

on  account  of  the  weather  ;  and  though  we  often  put  out  ro 
sea,  vet  we  were  as  often  driven  back.  At  leng'tti,  wcaritd 
with  the  delay,  we  resolved  lo  jjrusccute  our  voyage  ;  and, 
although  the  sea  seemed  more  than  usually  agitated,  we 
ventured  forward. 

3  "  The  gulf  of  Charybdis,  which  we  approached,  seemed 
whirled  round  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  form  a  vast  hollow, 
verging  to  a  point  in  the  centre.  Proceeding  onward,  and 
turning  my  eyes  to  ^Etna,  I  saw  it  cast  forth  large  volumes 
of  smoke,  of  m(5untainous  sizes,  which  entirely  covered  the 
island,  and  blotted  out  the  very  shores  from  my  view.  This, 
together  with  the  dreadful  noise,  and  the  sulphurous  stench 
which  %vas  strongly  perceived,  filled  me  with  apprehensions, 
that  some  more  dreadful  calamity  was  impendmg. 

4  "  The  sea  itself  seemed  to  wear  a  verj-  uimrual  appear- 
ance :  they  who  have  seen  a  lake  in  a  violent  shower  of  rain, 
covered  all  over  with  bubbles,  Avill  conceive  some  idea  of  its 
agitations.  My  surprise  was  still  increased,  by  the  calm- 
neis  and  serenity  of  the  weather;  not  a  breeze,  not  a  clcud, 
v/hich  might  be  supposed  to  put  all  n?iture  thus  into  motion. 
I  therefore  warned  my  companions,  that  an  earthquake  v.  as 
approaching;  and,  after  some  time,  making  for  the  shore 
witli  all  possible  diligence,  we  landed  at  Tropaa,  happy  and 
thankful  for  having  escaped  the  threatening  dangers  of  the  sea. 

5  "  But  our  triumphs  at  land  were  of  short  duration  ;  for 
we  had  scarcely  arrived  at  the  Jesuits'  College,  in  that  city, 
when  our  ears  were  stunned  with  a  horrid  sound,  resembling 
that  of  an  infinite  number  of  chariots,  driven  fiercely  for- 
ward ;  the  wheels  rattling,  and  the  thongs  cracking.  5?oon 
after  this,  a  most  dreadful  earthquake  ensued  ;  the  whole 
tra.ct  upon  which  we  stood  seemed  to  vibrate,  as  if  we  \vc:e 
in  tlie  scale  of  a  balance  that  continued  wavering.  This  m.o- 
tion,  however,  soon  grew  more  violent ;  and  being  no  longti 
able  to  keep  my  legs,  I  was  thrown  prostrate  upon  the 
ground.  In  the  mean  time,  the  universal  ruin  round  me,  re- 
doubled my  ama^.ement. 

6  •'  The  crash  of  falling  houses,  the  tottering  of  towers, 
and  the  groans  of  the  dying,  all  contributed  to  raise  my  ter- 
rour  and  despair.  On  every  side  of  me,  I  saw  nothing  but  a 
scene  of  ruin,  and  danger  threatening  whet  ever  I  should  fly. 
I  recommended  myself  to  God,  as  my  last  great  reflige. 

7  "At  that  hour,  O  how  vain  was  every  sublunary  happi- 
ness !  Wealth,  honour,  empire,  wisdom,  all  mere  useless 
sounds,  and  as  empty  a.s  the  bubbles  of  the  deep  I  Just  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  of  eternity,  nothing  but  God  was  my  plea- 
sure; and  the  nearer  I  approached,  I  only  loved  him  the  more. 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces,  129 

8  "After  some  time,  however,  finding  that  I  remained  un- 
hurt, amidst  the  g-eneral  concussion,  I  resolved  to  venture 
for  safety ;  and  running  as  fast  as  I  could,  1  reached  die  shoi'e, 
but  almost  terrified  out  of  my  reason.  I  did  not  search  long 
here,  till  1  found  the  boat  in  which  I  had  landed ,  and  my 
nompanions  also,  whose  terrors  were  even  greater  than  mine. 
Our  meeting  was  not  of  that  kind,  where  every  one  is  desi- 
rous of  telling  his  own  happy  escape  ;  it  was  all  silence,  and 
a  gloomy  dread  of  impending  terrors. 

'J  "Leaving  this  seat  of  dessolation,  we  prosecuted  our 
voyage  along  the  coast;  and  the  next  day  came  to  Rochetta, 
where  we  landed,  although  the  earth  still  continued  m  vio- 
lent agitations.  But  we  had  scarcely  arrived  at  our  inn, 
when  we  were  once  more  obliged  to  return  to  tjie  boat;  and, 
in  about  half  an  hour,  we  saw  the  greater  part  of  the  town, 
and  the  inn  at  which  we  had  put  up,  dashed  lo  the  ground, 
burying  the  inhabitants  beneath  the  ruins. 

10  "  In  this  manner,  proceeding  onward  in  our  little  ves- 
sel, finding  no  safety  at  land,  and  yet,  from  the  smallness  of 
our  boat,  having  but  a  very  dangerous  continuance  at  sea, 
we  at  length  landed  at  Lopizium,  a  castle  midway  between 
Tropaja  and  Euphajmia,  the  city  to  which,  as  I  said  before, 
we  were  bound.  Here,  wherever  1  turned  my  eyes,  noth- 
ing but  scenes  of  ruin  and  liorror  appeared;  towns  and  cas- 
tles levelled  to  the  ground  ;  Stromooli,  though  at  sixty  miles 
distance,  belching  forth  flames  in  an  unusual  manner,  and 
with  a  noise  which  I  could  distinctly  hear. 

11  "  But  my  attention  was  quickly  turned  from  more  re- 
mote, to  contiguous  danger.  The  rumbling  sound  of  an 
approaching  earthquake,  which  we  by  this  time  were  grown 
acquainted  with,  alarmed  us  for  the  consequences ;  it  every 
moment  seemed  to  grow  louder,  and  to  appi'oach  nearer. 
The  place  on  which  we  stood  now  began  to  shake  most 
dreadfully:  so  tha*:  being  unable 'to  stand,  my  companions 
and  I  caught  hold  of  whatever  shrub  grew  next  to  us,  and 
supported  ourselves  in  that  manner. 

12  "After  some  time,  this  violent  paroxysm  ceasing,  we 
again  stood  up,  in  order  to  prosecute  our  voyage  to  Euphae- 
mia,  which  lay  within  sight.  In  the  mean  time,  while  we 
were  preparing  for  this  purpose,  I  turned  my  eyes  towards 
the  city,  but  could  see  only  a  frightful  dark  cloud,  that  seem- 
ed to  rest  upon  the  place.  This  the  more  surprised  us,  as 
the  weather  was  so  very  serene. 

i:3  "  We  waited,  therefore,  till  the  cloud  had  passed  away : 
then  turning  to  look  for  the  city,  it  was  totally  sunk.  Won- 
derful to  tell  1  nothing  but  a  dismal  and   putrid  laJie   vva:i 


»30  Hie  English  Reader.  Parti. 

seen  where  ft  stood.  We  looked  about  to  find  some  one 
that  could  tell  us  of  its  sad  catastrophe,  but  could  see  no  pcr- 
Bon.  All  was  become  a  melancholy  solitude;  a  scene  of 
hideous  desolation. 

14  "Thus  proceeding  pensively  ^long,  in  quest  of  some 
hum.an  being  that  could  give  us  a  little  information,  we  at 
length  saw  a  boy  sitting  by  the  shore,  and  appearing  stupi- 
fied  with  terror.  Of  him,  therefore,  we  inquired  concern- 
ing the  fate  of  the  city;  but  he  could  not  be  prevailed  ou  to 
give  us  an  answer. 

15  We  entreated  him,  with  every  expression  of  teniler- 
ness  aiid  pity  to  tell  us ;  but  his  senses  were  quite  wrnpt  up 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  danger  he  had  escaped.  We  of- 
fered him  some  vituals,  but  he  seemed  to  loalhethe  sight. 
We  still  peristed  in  our  offices  of  kindness;  but  he  only 
pointed  to  the  place  of  the  city,  like  one  out  of  his  senses; 
and  then,  running  up  into  the  woods,  was  never  heard  of 
after.     Such  was  the  fate  of  the  city  of  Euphcemia. 

16  "As  we  continued  our  melancholy  course  along  the 
shore,  the  whole  coast,  for  the  space  of  two  hundred  rniles, 
presented  nothing  but  the  remains  of  cities  and  men  scat- 
tered, without  a  habitation,  over  the  fields.  Proceeding  thus 
along,  we  at  length  ended  our  distressful  voyage  by  arri- 
ving at  Naples,  after  having  escaped  a  thousand  danger* 
both  at  sea  and  land."  goldsmith. 

SECTION  II. 
Letter  from  Pi-iny  to  Geminius. 
DO  wft  not  sometimes  observe  a  sort  of  people,  who, 
though  they  are  themselves  under  the  abject  dominion  of 
every  vice,  show  a  kind  of  malicious  resentment  against  the 
errors  of  others,  and  are  most  severe  upon  those  whom  they 
most  resemble  .'  yet,  surely  a  lenity  of  disposition,  even  in 
persons  who  have  the  least  occasion  for  clemency  themselves, 
is  of  all  virtues  the  most  becoming. 

2  The  highest  of  all  characters,  in  my  estimation,  is  his, 
who  is  as  ready  to  pardon  the  errors  of  mankind,  as  if  he 
were  every  day  guilty  of  some  himself;  and.  at  the  sime 
time,  as  cautious  of  committing  a  fault,  as  if  he  never  for- 
gaveone.  Itisarulelhen  whichweshould,  upon  all  occasions 
both  private  and  public,  most  religiously  obsei've:  "to  be  in- 
exorable to  our  own  failings,  while  we  treat  those  of  the  rest 
of  the  world  with  tenderness ;  not  excepting  even  such  as 
forgive  none  but  themselves." 

3  I  shall,  perhaps,  be  asked,  who  it  is  that  has  given  occa- 
eion  to  these  reflections.     Know  then  tlrat  a  certain  persou 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces,  131 

lately-  -but  of  that  when  we  meet — though,  upon  second 
thoughts,  not  even  then  ;  lest,  whilst  I  condemn  and  expose 
his  conduct,  I  shall  act  counter  to  that  maxim  I  particularly 
recommend.  Whoever,  therefore,  and  whatever  he  i^, 
shall  remain  in  silence  :  for  though  there  may  be  some  use, 
perhaps,  in  setting  a  mark  upon  the  man,  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
ample, tliere  will  be  more,  however,  in  sparing  him,  for  the 
sake  of  humanity.     Farewell.  melmoth's  pliny. 

SECTION  III. 
Letter  from  Plinv  to  Marcellinus  on  the  death  of  an 

•  amiable  young  woman. 

1  WRITE  this  under  the  utmost  oppression  of  sorrow  : 
the  yoimgest  daughter  of  my  friend  Fundanus,  is  dead  !  Ne- 
ver surely  was  there  c  more  agreeable,  and  more  amiable 
young  person,  or  one  who  better  deserved  to  have  enjoyed 
a  long,  I  had  almost  said,  an  immortal  life  I  She  had  all  the 
wisdom  of  age  and  discretion  of  a  matron,  joined  with  youth- 
ful sweetness  and  virgin  modesty. 

2  With  what  an  engaging  fondness  did  she  behave  to  her 
'atherl  How  kindly  and  respectfully  receive  his  friends  I  How 
c-fTectionately  treat  all  tliose  who,  in  their  respective  offices, 
had  the  care  and  education  of  her  !  She  employed  much  ot 
her  time  in  readitig,  in  which  she  discovered  great  strength 
of  judgment ;  she  indulged  herself  in  few  diversions  and 
those  witli  much  caution.  With  what  forbearance,  with  what 
patience,  with  what  courage,  did  slie  endure  her  last  illness  ! 

3  She  complied  with  all  the  directions  of  her  physicians  ; 
she  encouraged  her  sister,  and  her  father ;  and,  when  all  her 
strength  of  body  was  exhausted,  supported  herself  by  the 
single  vigour  of  her  mind.  Tliat,  indeed,  continued,  even 
to  licr  la^  moments,  unbroken  by  the  pain  of  a  long  illness, 
or  the  terrours  of  approachmg  death  ;  and  it  is  a  reflection 
which  makes  the  loss  of  her  so  much  the  mere  to  be  lament- 
ed. A  loss  infinitely  severe  !  and  more  severe  by  the  par- 
ticular conjuncture  m  which  it  happened  ! 

4  She  was  contracted  to  a  most  worthy  youth  ;  the  wed- 
ding day  was  fixed,  and  we  were  all  invited. — How  sad  a 
change  from  the  highest  joy,  to  the  deepest  sorrow  I  How 
shall  I  express  the  wound  that  piercftd  my  heart,  when  1  heard 
Fundanus  himself,  (as  grief  is  ever  finding  out  circumstan- 
ces to  aggravate* its  affliction,)  ordering  the  money  he  had 
designed  to  lay  out  upon  clothes  and  jewels,  for  her  mar- 
riage, to  be  employed  in  myrrh  and  spices  for  her  funeral  I 

5  He  is  a  m,an>  of  great  learning  and  good  sense,  who  has 
applied  himself,  from  his  earhest   youth,  to  the  noblest  and 


132  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

most  elevated  studies:  but  all  the  maximsof  fortitude  which 
he  has  leceivedfrom  books,  or  advanced  himself,  he  now  abso- 
lutely rejects ;  and  every  other  virtue  of  his  heart  gfives  place 
to  all  a  parent's  tenderness.  We  shall  excuse,  we  shall  even 
•approve  bis  sorrow,  when  we  consider  what  he  has  lost.  H  e 
has  lost  a  daughter  who  resembled  him  in  his  manners,  as 
weil  as  his  person  ;  and  exactly  copied  out  all  her  father. 

6  If  his  friend  Marcellinus  should  think  proper  to  write 
to  him,  upon  the  subject  of  so  reasonable  a  grief,  let  n<e  re- 
mind him  not  to  use  the  rougher  arguments  of  consolation, 
and  such  as  seem  to  carry  a  sort  of  reproof  with  them  ;  but 
those  of  kind  and  sympathising  humanity. 

7  Time  will  render  him  more  open  to  the  dictates  of  rea- 
son :  for  as  a  fresh  wound  shrinks  back  from  the  hand  of  tlie 
surgeon,  but  by  degrees  submits  to,  and  even  requires  the 
means  of  its  cure  ;  so  a  mind,  under  the  first  impressions  of 
a  misfortune,  shuns  and  rejects  all  arguments  of  consolation, 
but  at  length,  if  applied  with  tenderness,  calmly  and  willing- 
ly acquiesces  in  tliem.     Farewell.      Melmoth's  Pliny. 

SECTION  IV. 

On  Discretion. 

\  HAVE  often  thought,  if  the  minds  of  menwerelaid  open, 
we  should  see  but  little  difference  between  that  of  a  wise 
man,  and  that  of  a  fool.  There  are  infinite  reveries,  num 
berless  extravagances,  and  a  succession  of  vanities,  whicli 
pass  through  both.  The  great  difference  is,  that  the  first 
knows  how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thought  for  conversation,  by 
suppressing  some,  and  communicating  others  ;  whereas  the 
other  lets  them  all  indifferently  fly  out  in  words.  This  sort 
of  discretion,  however,  has  no  place  in  private  conversation 
between  intimate  friends.  On  such  occasions,  the  wisest 
men  very  often  talk  like  the  weakest ;  for,  indeed,  talking 
with  a  friend,  is  nothing  else  than  thinking  a'uvcl. 

2  Tully  has  therefore  very  justly  exposed  a  precept,  deli- 
veied  by  some  ancient  writers,  That  a  man  shouid  live  with 
his  encmj'  in  such  a  manner,  as  might  leave  him  room  to  he- 
roine his  friend ;  and  with  iiis  friend,  in  such  a  manner,  that, 
if  he  became  liis  enemy,  it  should  not  be  in  his  power  to  hurt 
bim.  The  first  part  of  this  rule,  which  rega'-ds  our  behav- 
iour towards  an  enemy,  is  indeed  ^ery  reasonable,  as  well  as 
very  prudential;  but  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our 
beliaviou'-  towards  a  friend,  savours  more  of  cunning  than  of 
discretion  and  would  cut  a  man  offfrorn  the  greatest  plea- 
sures of  life,  which  are  the  freedoms  of  conversation  with  a 
bosom  friend.     Besides  that,  v.  hen  a  friend  is  turned  into  an 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces,  133 

onemy,  the  world  is  just  enough  to  accuse  the  perfidiousness 
of  the  friend,  ratlier  than  the  indiscretion  of  the  person  who 
confided  in  him. 

3  Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words,  but  in  all 
the  circumstances  of  action  ;  and  is  like  an  under-agent  of 
Providence,  to  guide  and  direct  us  in  the  ordinary  concerns 
of  life.  There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the  mind 
of  man,  but  there  is  none  so  useful  as  discretion.  It  is  tliis, 
indeed,  which  gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest ;  which  sets  them 
at  work  in  their  proper  times  and  places ;  and  turns  them 
to  the  advantage  of  the  person  who  is  possessed  of  them. 
Without  it,  learningis  pedantry,  and  wit  impertinence;  virtue 
itself  looks  like  weakness  ;  the  best  parts  only  qualify  a  man 
to  be  moresprightlyinerrours,andactivetohisown  prejudice. 

4  Discretion  does  not  only  make  a  man  the  master  of  his 
own  parts,  but  of  other  men's.  The  discreet  man  finds  out 
the  talents  of  those  he  converses  with,  and  knows  liow  to 
apply  them  to  proper,  uses.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into 
particular  communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  may  ob 
serve,  that  it  is  the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the  learn- 
ed, nor  the  brave,  who  guides  the  conversation,  and  gives 
measures  to  society.  A  man  with  great  talents,  but  void  of 
discretion,  is  like  Polyphemus  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind, 
endued  with  an  irresistible  force,  which,  for  want  of  sight, 
IS  of  no  use  to  him. 

5  Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  yet  if  he  wants 
discretion,  he  wJl  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world  ; 
on  the  contrary,  if  he  has  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and 
but  a  common  share  of  others,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in 
his  particular  station  of  life. 

6  At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the  most  useful 
talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cunning  to  be  the 
accomplishment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous  minds.  Discre- 
tion points  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues  the  most 
proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them  :  cunning  has 
only  private  selfish  aims,  and  sticks  at  nothing  which  may 
make  them  succeed. 

7  Discretion  has  large  and  extended  views ;  and,  like  a 
well-forraed  eye,  commands  a  whole  horizon  :  cunning  is  u 
kind  of  short-sightedness,  that  discovers  the  minutest  objects 
which  are  near  at  hand,  but  is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  a 
distance.  Discretion,  the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  a 
greater  authority  to  the  person  who  possesses  it :  cunning, 
when  it  is  once  detected,  loses  its  force,  and  makes  a  man 
incapable  of  bringing  about  even  those  events  which  he 
might  have  done,  had  he  passed  only  for  a  plain  man. 

M 


tii  The  English  Render.  Part    1. 

8  Discretion  is  (be  peifection  of  reason,  and  a  guide  ^o  us 
in  all  the  unties  of  life:  cunning' is  a  kind  of  instinct,  tliat  only 
looks  out  afler  our  immediate  interest  and  welfare.  Discre- 
tion is  only  found  in  men  of  strong  sense  and  good  under- 
standings :  cunning  is  often  to  to  be  met  with  in  brutes  them- 
selves; and  in  persons  who  are  but  the  fewest  removes  from 
them.  In  short,  cunning  is  only  the  mimic  of  discretion  ; 
an  1  it  may  pass  upon  weak  men,  in  the  same  manner  as  vi- 
vacity is  often  mistaken  for  wit,  and  gravity  for  wisdom. 

9  The  cast  of  mind  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet  man, 
makes  him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and  consider  what  will 
be  his  condition  millions  of  ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is 
at  present.  He  knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness  which 
is  reserved  for  him  in  another  world,  loses  nothing  of  its  real- 
ity by  being  placed  at  so  great  a  distance  from  him.  The 
objects  do  not  appear  little  to  him  because  they  are  remote. 
He  considers,  that  those  pleasures  and  pains  which  lie  hid  in 
eteinity,  approach  nearer  to  him  every  moment ;  and  will 
be  present  with  him  in  their  full  weight  and  measure,  as 
much  as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he  feels  at  this  very 
instant.  For  this  reason,  he  is  careful  to  secure  to  himself 
that  which  is  the  proper  happiness  of  his  nature,  and  the  ul- 
timate design  of  his  being. 

10  He  carries  his  thoughts  to  the  end  of  every  action,  and 
considers  the  most  distant,  as  well  as  the  most  immediate  ef- 
fects of  it.  He  supersedes  every  little  prospect  of  gain  and 
advantage  which  offers  itself  here,  if  he  does  not  find  it  con- 
sistent with  his  views  of  a  hereafter.  In  a  word,  his  hopes 
are  full  of  immortality  ;  his  schemes  are  large  andgloiious; 
and  his  conduct  suitable  to  one  who  knows  his  true  interest, 
and  how  to  pursue  it  by  proper  methods.  addison. 

SECTION  V. 

On  the  governvie7it  of  our  thoughts. 

A  MULTITUDE  of  cases  occur,  in  which  we  are  no  less 
accountable  for  what  we  think,  than  for  what  we  do.  As, 
first,  when  the  introduction  of  any  train  of  thought  depends 
upon  ourselves,  and  is  our  voluntary  act,  by  turning  our  at- 
tention towards  such  objects,  awakening  such  passions, 
or  engaging  in  such  employments,  as  we  know  must  give  a 
peculiardeterminationtoour  thoughts.  Next,  when  thoughts, 
by  whatever  accident  they  may  have  been  originally  sug- 
gested, are  indulged  with  deliberation  and  complacency. 

2  Tiiough  the  miod  has  been  passive  in  their  reception, 
and,  therefore  free  from  blame ;  yet,  if  it  be  active  in  their 
continuance,  the  guilt  becomes  its  own.      They  ma}-  have 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  155 

intruded  at  first,  like  unbidden  guests;  but  if,  when  entered, 
they  are  made  welcome,  and  kindly  entertained,  the  case  is 
the  same  as  if  they  had  been  invited  from  the  beg-inninj. 

3  If  we  are  thus  accountable  to  God  for  thoug-hts  either 
voluntarily  introduced,  or  deliberately  indulged,  we  are  no 
less  so.  in  the  last  place,  for  those  which  find  adn>ittance  into 
our  hearts  from  supine  negligence,  from  total  relaxation  of 
attention,  from  allowing  our  imagination  to  rove  with  entire 
license,  "  like  the  eyes  of  the  fool,  towards  the  end  of  the 
earth." 

4  Oui'  minds  are,  in  this  case,  thrown  open  to  folly  and  van- 
ity. They  are  prostituted  to  every  evil  thing  which  pleases 
to  take  possession.  The  consequences  must  be  all  charged 
to  our  account;  and  in  vain  we  plead  excuse  from  human  in- 
firmity. Hence  it  appears,  that  the  great  object  at  which  we 
are  to  aim  in  governing  our  thoughti?,  is,  to  take  the  most  ef- 
fectual measures  for  preventing  the  introduction  of  such  as 
are  sinful ;  and  for  hastening  their  expulsion,  if  they  shall 
have  introduced  themselves  without  consent  of  the  will. 

5  But  when  we  descend  into  our  breasts,  and  examine 
low  far  we  have  studied  to  keep  this  object  in  view,  who  can 
tell,  "howoft  he  hath  offended?"  In  no  article  of  religion  o,\ 
morals  are  men  more  culpably  remiss,  than  in  the  unrestrain- 
ed indulgence  they  give  to  fanc)' :  and  that  too,  for  the  most 
part,  without  remorse.  Since  the  time  that  reason  began  to 
exert  her  powers,  tliought,  duringour  walkinghours,  nas  beeu 
active  in  every  breast,  without  a  moment's  suspension  or  pause. 

6  The  cun'ent  of  ideas  has  been  always  flowing.  The 
wheels  of  the  spiritual  engine  have  circulated  with  perpetual 
motion.  Let  me  ask,  what  has  been  the  fruit  of  this  incessant 
activity,  with  the  greater  part  of  mankind  ?  Of  the  innumera- 
ble hours  that  have  been  employed  in  thought,  how  kw  are 
marked  with  any  permanent  or  useful  effect  ?  How  many 
have  either  passed  away  in  idle  dreams;  or  have  been  aban- 
doned to  anxious  discontented  musings,  to  unsocial  and  ma- 
lign mt  passions,  or  to  irregular  and  criminal  desires? 

7  Had  I  power  to  lay  open  that  storehouse  of  iniquity  which 
the  hearts  of  too  many  conceal ;  could  I  draw  out  and  read 
to  them  a  list  of  all  tlie  imaginations  they  have  devised,  and 
all  the  passions  tliey  have  indulged  in  secret;  what  a  picture 
of  rnen  should  I  present  to  themselves  !  What  crimes  would 
they  appear  to  have  perpetrated  in  secrecy,  which  to  their 
most  intimate  companions  they  durst  not  reveal  1 

8  Even  when  men  imagine  their  thoughts  to  be  innocentl)' 
employed,  they  too  commonly  suffer  tljem  to  runout  intoex- 
travagant  imaginations,  and  chimerical  plans  of  whai  they 


136  T%e  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

would  wish  to  attain,  or  choose  to  be,  if  they  could  frame  the 
course  of  things  according  to  their  desire.  Thoiigh  stich 
eiuployments  of  fancy  come  not  under  the  same  description 
with  those  which  are  plainly  criminal,  yet  wholly  unblama- 
ble they  seldom  are.  Besides  the  waste  of  time  which  they 
occ^asion,  and  the  misapplication  which  they  indicate  of  those 
intellectual  powers  that  were  given  to  us  for  much  nobler 
purposes,  such  romantic  speculations  lead  us  always  into  tJie 
■aeighbourhood  of  forbidden  regions. 

9  They  place  us  on  dangerous  ground.  They  are,  for  the 
most  part,  connected  with  some  one  bad  passion  ;  and  tliey 
always  nourish  a  giddy  and  frivolous  turn  of  thought.  They 
unfit  the  mind  for  applying  with  vigour  to  rational  pursuits, 
or  for  acquiescing  in  sober  plans  of  conduct.  From  that 
ideal  world  in  which  it  allows  itself  to  dwell,  it  returns  to  the 
commerce  of  men,  unbent  and  relaxed,  sickly  and  tainted, 
averse  to  discharging  the  duties,  and  sometimes  disqualified 
even  for  relishing  the  pleasures  of  ordinary  life. 

SECTION  VI. 

On  the  evils  which  Jluw  from  unrestrained  passions. 

WHEN  man  revolted  from  his  Maker,  his  passions  rebel- 
led against  himself;  and,  from  being  Originally  the  ministers 
of  reason,  have  become  the  tyrants  of  the  soul. — Hence,  in 
tareating  of  this  subject,  two  things  may  be  assumed  as  prin- 
ciples: xirst,  that  through  the  present  weakness  of  the  un- 
derstanding, our  passions  are  often  directed  towards  impro- 
per objects ;  and  next,  thkt  even  when  their  direction  is  just, 
and  their  objects  are  innocent,  they  perpetually  tend  to  run 
into  excess  ;  they  always  hurry  us  towards  their  gratification, 
with  a  blind  and  dangerous  impetuosity.  On  these  two 
points,  then,  turns  the  whole  government  of  our  passions: 
first,  to  ascertain  the  proper  objects  of  their  pursuit;  and 
next,  to  restrain  them  in  that  pursuit,  when  they  would  car- 
ry us  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason. 

2  If  there  is  any  passion  which  intrudes  itself  unseasonably 
into  our  mind,  which  darkens  and  troubles  cur  judgment,  cr 
habitually  discomposes  our  temper;  which  unfits  us  for  pro- 
perly discharging  ihe  duties,  or  disqualifies  us  for  cheerfully- 
enjoying  the  comforts  of  life,  we  may  certainly  conclude  it 
to  have  gained  a  dangerous  ascendant.  The  "great  object 
which  we  ought  to  propose  to  ourselves,  is,  to  acqtiire  a 
firm  and  steadfast  mind,  which  the  infatuation  of  passion 
shall  not  seduce,  nor  its  violence  shake ;  which,  resting  on 
fixed  principles,  shall,  in  the  midst  of  contending  emotions, 
remain   free,  and  master  of  itself;  able  to  listen  calmlj-  to 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  137 

the  voice  of  conscience,  and  prepared  to  obey  its  dictates 
without  hesitation. 

3  To  obtain,  if  possible,  such  command  of  passion,  is  one 
of  the  highest  attainments  of  the  rational  nature.  Argu 
ments  to  show  its  importance  crowd  upon  us  from  eveiT 
quarter.  If  there  be  any  fertile  source  of  mischief  to  human 
life,  it  is,  beyond  doubt,  the  misrule  of  passion.  It  is  this 
which  poisons  the  enjoyment  of  individuals,  overturns  the 
order  of  society,  and  strews  the  path  of  life  with  so  many 
miseries,  as  to  render  it  indeed  the  vale  of  tears. 

4  All  those  great  scenes  of  public  calamity,  which  we  be- 
hold with  astonishment  and  horror,  have  originated  from  the 
source  of  violent  passions.  These  have  overspread  the  earth 
with  bloodshed.  These  have  pointed  the  assassin's  dagger, 
and  filled  the  poisoned  bowl.  These,  in  every  age,  have 
furnished  too  copious  materials  for  the  orator's  patlietic  de- 
clamation, and  for  the  poet's  tragical  song.  When  from  pub- 
lic life  we  descend  to  private  conduct,  though  passion  ope- 
rates not  there  in  so  wide  and  destructive  a  sphere,  we  shall 
find  its  influence  to  be  no  less  baneful. 

5  I  need  not  mention  the  black  and  fierce  passions,  such 
as  envy,  jealously,  and  revenge,  whose  effects  are  obviously 
noxious,  and  whose  agitations  are  immediate  misery;  but 
take  any  of  the  licentious  and  sensual  kind.  Suppose  it  to 
have  unlimited  scope ;  trace  it  throughout  its  course,  and  we 
shall  find  that  gradually,  as  it  rises,  it  taints  the  soundness, 
and  troubles  the  peace,  of  h's  mind  over  whom  it  reigns; 
that,  in  its  progi'ess,  it  engages  him  in  pursuits  which  are 
marked  either  with  danger  or  with  shame  ;  that,  in  the  end, 
it  wastes  his  fortune,  destroys  his  health,  or  debases  his  char- 
acter; and  aggravates  all  the  miseries  in  which  it  has  involv- 
ed him,  with  the  concluding  pangs  of  bitter  remorse. 
Through  all  the  stages  of  this  fatal  course,  how  many  have 
heretofore  run  ?  What  multitudes  do  we  daily  behold  "pursu- 
ing it,  with  blind  and  headlong  steps?  bi.air. 

SECTION  VII. 
On  the  proper  slate  of  our  temper,  loilh  respect  lo  one  another. 

IT  is  evident,  in  the  general,  that  if  we  consult  either  pub- 
Tic  welfare  or  private  happiness.  Christian  charity  ought  to 
regulate  our  disposition  in  mutual  intercourse.  But  as  this 
great  principle  admits  of  several  diversified  appearances,  let 
us  consider  some  of  the  chief  forms  under  which  it  ought  to 
show  itself  in  the  usual  tenour  of  life. 

2  What,  first,  presents  itself  to  be  recommended,  is  a 
peaceable  temper ;  a  disposition  averse  to  give  offence,  and 


r38  TJie  Engluh  Reader.  Parti. 

desirous  of  cultivating  haimony,  and  amicable  intercourse 
m  society.  'I'liis  sujipuses  yielding-  and  condescending  man- 
ners, unwillingness  to  contend  with  others  about  trifles,  and, 
in  contests  that  are  unavoidable,  proper  moderation  of  spirit. 

3  Such  a  temper  is  the  first  principle  of  self-enjoyment. 
It  isthebasisofallorderand  happiness  among  mankind.  The 
positive  and .conlentinus,  the  rude,  and  cjuarrelsome,  are  the 
bane  of  society.  They  seem  destined  to  blast  the  small  share 
of  comfort,  which  nature  has  here  allotted  to  man.  But  they 
cannotdisturb  the  peace  of  others,  more  than  they  break  tbeii 
own.  The  hurricane  rag-es  first  in  their  own  bosom,  before  il 
is  let  forth  upon  the  wor  Id.  In  the  tempests  which  they  raise, 
they  are  always  tost ;  and  frequently  it  is  tlieir  lot  to  perish. 

4  A  peaceable  temper  must  be  supported  by  a  candid  one, 
or  a  disposition  to  view  the  conduct  of  otliers  vvilh  faiiness 
and  imijartiality.  This  stands  opposed  to  a  jealous  and  sus- 
picious temper,  which  ascribes  every  action  to  (he  worst 
motive,  and  throws  a  black  shade  over  every  characfer.  If 
we  would  be  happy  in  ourselves,  or  in  our  connexions  with 
others,  let  us  guard  against  this  malignant  spirit.  Let  us 
study  that  charity  "  which  thinketh  no  evil;"  that  temper 
which,  without  degenerating  into  credulity,  will  dispose  us 
to  be  just;  and  which  can  allow  us  to  observe  an  crrour,  with- 
out imputing-  it  as  a  crime.  Thus  we  shall  be  kept  free 
from  that  continual  irritatioH,  which  imaginary'  injuries  raise 
in  a  suspicious  breast ;  and  shall  walk  among  men  as  our 
brethren,  not  as  our  enemies. 

5  But  to  be  peaceable,  and  to  be  candid,  is  not  all  that  is 
required  of  a  good  man.  He  must  cultivate  a  kind,  gener- 
ous, and  sympathizing  temper,  which  feels  for  distress,  where- 
ever  it  is  beheld ;  which  enters  into  the  concerns  ofhis  friends 
with  ardour ;  and  to  all  with  whom  he  has  intercourse,  is 
gentle,  obliging,  and  humane.  How  amiable  appears  such 
a  disposition,  when  contrasted  with  a  malicious  or  envious 
temper,  which  wraps  itself  up  in  its  own  narrow  interest, 
looks  with  an  evil  eye  on  the  success  of  others,  and,  with  an 
unnatural  satisfaction,  feeds  on  their  disappointments  or 
miseries  !  How  little  does  he  know  of  the  true  happiness  of 
life,  who  is  a  stranger  to  that  intercourse  of  good  offices  and 
kind  affections,  which,  by  a  pleasing  charm,  attaches  men  to 
one  another,  and  circulates  joy  from  heart  to  heart ! 

6  We  are  not  to  imagine,  that  a  benevolent  temper  finds 
no  exercise,  unless  when  opportunities  offer  of  performing 
actions  of  high  generosity,  or  of  extensive  utility.  These 
may  seldom  occur.   The  condition  of  the  greater  part  of  mail- 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuotut  Pieces.  139 

kind,  in  a  jooa  measure,  precludes  them.  But,  m  the  ordi- 
nary round  of  human  affairs,  many  occasions  daily  present 
themselves,  of  mitigating  the  vexations  which  others  suffer ; 
of  soothing  their  minds ;  of  aiding-  their  interest ;  of  promo- 
ting their  cheei  fulness  or  ease.  Such  occasions  may  relate 
to  the  smaller  iacidents  of  life. 

7  But  let  us  remember,  that  of  small  incidents  the  system 
of  human  life  is  chiefly  composed.  The  attentions  which  re- 
spect these,  when  suggested  by  real  benignity  of  temper,  are 
often  more  material  to  the  happiness  of  tliose  around  us,  than 
actions  which  carry  the  appearance  of  greater  dignity  and 
splendour.  No  wise  or  good  man,  ought  to  account  any 
rules  of  behaviour  as  below  his  regard,  which  tend  to  cement 
the  great  brotherhood  of  mankind  in  comfortable  union. 
Particularly  amidst  that  familiar  intercourse  which  belongs  to 
domestic  life,  all  the  virtues  of  temper  find  an  ample  range. 

8  It  is  very  unfortunate,  that  within  that  circle,  men  too 
often  think  themselves  at  liberty  to  give  unrestrained  vent  to 
the  caprice  of  passion  and  humour.  Whereas  there,  on  the 
contrary,  more  than  any  where  else,  it  concerns  them  to 
attend  to  the  government  of  their  hearl.,  to  check  what  is 
violent  in  their  tempers,  and  to  soften  what  is  harsh  in  their 
manners.  For  there  the  temper  is  formed.  There,  the  real 
character  displays  itself.  The  forms  of  the  world,  disguise 
men  when  abroad.  But  within  his  own  family,  every  man  is 
known  to  be  what  he  truly  is. 

9  In  all  our  intercourse  then  with  others,  particularly  in 
that  which  is  closest  and  most  intimate,  let  us  cultivate  a 
peaceable,  a  candid,  a  gentle,  and  friendl)"  temper.  This 
is  the  temper  to  which,  by  repeated  injunctions,  our  holy 
religion  seeks  to  form  us.  This  was  tlie  temper  of  Christ 
This  is  the  temper  of  Heaven. 

SECTION  VIII. 

Excellence  of  the  holy  Scriptures. 

IS  it  bigotiy  to  believe  the  sublime  truths  of  the  Gospel, 
with  full  assurance  of  faith  ?  I  glory  in  such  bigotry.  I 
svould  not  part  with  it  for  a  thousand  worlds.  1  congratu- 
late the  man  who  is  possessed  of  it ;  for  amidst  all  the  vicis- 
situdes and  calainities  of  the  present  state,  that  man  enjoys 
an  inexhaustible  fund  of  consolation,  of  which  it  is  not  in  the 
power  of  fortune  to  deprive  him. 

2  There  is  not  a  book  on  earth,  sofavourable  toall  thekind, 
and  all  the  sublime  affections;  or  so  unfriendly  to  hatred  and 
persecution,  totyrannj  jto  injustice,  and  every  sort  of  male  vo 


140  The  English  Reader.  Parti. 

lence,  as  the  Gospel.     It  breaths  nothing  throughout,  but 
mercy,  benevolence,  and  peace. 

3  Poetry  is  sublime,  when  it  awakens  in  the  mind  any 
great  and  good  affection,  as  piety,  or  patriotism.  This  is  one 
of  the  noblest  effects  of  the  art.  The  Psalms  are  remarka- 
:;ble,  beyond  all  other  writings,  for  their  power  of  inspiring 
devout  emotions.  But  it  is  not  in  this  respect  only,  that 
they  arc  sublime.  Of  the  divine  nature,  they  contain  the 
most  magniticent  descriptions,  that  the  soul  of  man  can  com- 
prehend. The  hundred  and  fourth  Psalm,  in  particular,  dis- 
plays the  power  and  goodness  of  Providence,  ia  creating 
and  preserving  the  world,  and  the  various  tribes  of  animals  in  it 
with  such  majestic  brevity  and  beauty,  as  it  is  in  vain  to  look 
for  in  any  human  composition. 

4  Such  of  the  doctrines  of  the  Gospel  as  are  level  to  human 
capacity,  appear  to  be  agreeable  to  the  purest  truth,  and  the 
soundest  morality.  All  the  genius  and  learning  of  the  hea- 
then world ;  all  the  penetration  of  Pythagoras,  Socrates,  and 
Aristotle,  had  never  been  able  to  produce  such  a  system  of 
moral  duty,  and  so  rational  an  account  of  Providence  and  of 
man,  as  are  to  be  found  in  the  New  Testament.  Compared, 
indeed,    with  this,  all  other  moral  and  theological  wisdom 

Loses,  discountenanc'd,  and  like  foUy  shows.  beattu 

SECTION  IX. 
Reflections  occasioned  by  a  revieto  of  the  hlessings pronounced 

by  Christ  on  his  disciples,  in  his  sermoii  on  the  mount. 

WHAT  abundant  reason  have  we  to  thank  God,  that  this 
large  and  instructive  discourse  of  our  blessed  Redeemer,  is  so 
particularly  recorded  by  the  sacred  historian.  Let  every 
one  that  "  hath  ears  to  hear,"  attend  to  it :  for  surely  no  man 
ever  spoke  as  our  Lord  did  on  this  occasion.  Let  us  fix  our 
minds  in  a  posture  of  humble  attention,  that  we  may  "receive 
the  law  from  his  mouth." 

2  He  opened  it  witli  blessings,  repeated  and  most  impor- 
tant blessings.  But  on  whom  are  they  pronounced.^  and 
whom  are  we  taught  to  think  the  happiest  of  mankind .'  The 
meek  and  the  humble;  the  penitent  and  the  merciful ;  the 
peaceful  and  the  pure  ;  those  that  hiinger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness  ;  those  that  labour,  but  faint  not  under  perse- 
cutirn!  Lord!  how  different  are  thy  maxims  from  those  of 
the  children  of  this  world  ! 

3  They  call  the  proud  happy;  and  admii'e  the  gay,  the  rich, 
the  powerful,  and  the  victorious.  But  let  a  vain  world  take 
its  gaudy  trifles,  and  dress  up  the  foolish  creatures  that  pur- 
sue them.     May  oUr  souls  share  in  tliat  happiness,  which 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  14\ 

the  Son  of  God  came  to  recommend  and  to  procure!  May 
v/e  obtain  mercy  of  the  Lord;  may  we  be  owned  as  bis  chil- 
dren ;  enjo)'  his  presence ;  and  inherit  his  kingdom  I  With 
these  enjoyments,  and  these  hopes,  we  will  cheerfully  wel- 
come the  lowest,  or  the  most  painful  circumstances. 

4  Let  us  be  animated  to  cultivate  those  amiable  virtues, 
which  are  here  recommended  to  us ;  this  humility  and  meek- 
ness ;  this  penitent  sense  of  sin  ;  this  ardent  desire  after 
righteousness ;  this  compassion  and  purity ;  this  peaceful- 
ness  and  fortitude  of  soul ;  and,  in  a  word,  this  universal 
goodness  which  becomes  us,  as  we  sustain  the  character  of 
"  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  and  "  the  liglit  of  the  world." 

5  Is  there  not  reason  to  lament,  that  we  answer  the  char- 
acter no  better  ?  Is  there  not  reason  to  exclaim  with  a  good 
man  in  former  times,  "Blessed  Lord.!  either  these  are  not 
thy  words  ;  or  we  are  not  Christians  !"  Oh,  season  our  hearts 
more  effectually  with  thy  grace!  Pour  forth  that  divine  oil 
on  our  lamps  !  Then  shall  the  flame  brighten ;  then  shall  the 
ancient  honours  of  thj'  religion  be  revived;  and  multitudes 
be  awakened  and  animated,  by  the  lustre  of  it,  '-to  glorify 
our  Father  in  heaven."  doddridge. 

SECTION  X. 
Schemes  of  life  often  illusory. 
OMAR,  the  son  of  Hassan,  had  passed  seventy-five  years 
in  honour  and  prosperity.  The  favour  of  three  successive 
califs  had  filled  his  house  with  gold  and  silver;  and  whenever 
he  appeared,  the  benedictions  of  the  people  proclaimed  his 
passage. 

2  Terrestrial  happiness  is  of  short  continuance.  The 
brightness  of  the  flame  is  wasting  its  fuel ;  the  fragrant  flow- 
er is  passing  away  in  its  own  odours.  The  vigour  of  Omar 
began  to  fail ;  the  curls  of  beauty  fell  from  his  head ;  strength 
departed  from  his  hands ;  and  agility  from  his  feet.  He  gave 
back  to  the  cahf  the  keys  of  trust,  and  the  seals  of  secrec}' : 
and  sought  no  other  pleasure  for  the  remains  of  life,  than 
the  converse  of  the  wise,  and  the  gratitude  of  the  good. 

3  The  powers  of  his  mind  were  yet  unimpaired.  His  cham- 
ber was  filled  by  visitants,  eager  to  catch  the  dictates  of  ex- 
perience, and  officious  to  pay  the  tribute  of  admiration. 
Caled  fJie  sou  of  the  viceroy  of  Eg^-pt,  entered  every  day 
early,  and  retired  late.  He  was  beautiful  and  eloquent : 
Omar  admired  his  wit,  and  loved  his  docility.  "  Tell  me," 
Raid  Caled,  "  thou  to  whose  voice  nations  have  listened,  and 
whose  wisdom  is  known  to  the  extremities  of  Asia,  tell  me 
Low  I  may  resemble  Omar  tlie  prudent.     The  arts  by  which 


142  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

thou  hast  gained  power  and  preserved  it,  are  to  thee  no  lon- 
ger necessary  or  useful ;  impart  to  me  the  secret  of  thy  con- 
duct, and  teach  me  the  plan  upon  which  thy  wisdom  has 
built  thy  fortune." 

"  Young  man,"  said  Omar,  "it  is  of  little  use  to  form 
plans  of  life.  When  I  took  my  first  survey  of  the  world,  in 
my  twentieth  year,  having  considered  the  various  coi.diticns 
of  mankind,  in  the  hour  of  solitude  I  said  thus  tomjielf, 
leaning  against  a  cedar,  which  spread  its  branches  ovei  n^y 
head,  "  Seventy  years  are  allowed  to  man  ;  J  have  yet  fifty 
remaining. 

5  "  Ten  years  I  will  allot  to  the  attainment  of  knowledge, 
and  ten  I  will  pass  in  foreign  countries  ;  I  shall  be  learned, 
and  therefore  shall  be  honoured  ;  every  city  will  shout  at  my 
arrival,  and  every  student  will  solicit  my  friendi-hip.  Twen- 
ty years  thus  passed,  will  store  nij  m>nd  with  images,  which 
I  shall  be  busy,  through  the  rest  of  niy  life  in  combining  and 
comparing.  1  shall  revel  in  inexhaustible  accum.uiati;;ns  of 
intellectual  riches;  I  shall  find  new  pleasures  for  every  mo- 
ment; and  shall  never  more  be  weary  of  mj  self. 

6  "1  will  not,  however,  deviate  too  far  from  the  beaten 
track  of  life  ;  but  will  try  what  can  be  found  in  female  deli- 
cacy. I  will  marry  a  wife  beautiful  as  the  Houries,  and 
wise  as  Zobeide  :  with  her  I  will  live  twenty  years  within  the 
suburbs  of  Bagdat,  in  every  pleasure  that  wealth  can  pur 
chase,  and  fancy  can  invent. 

7  "  I  will  then  retire  to  a  rural  dwelling,  pass  my  days  in 
obscurity  and  contemplation,  and  lie  silentl}'  down  on  the 
bed  of  death.  Through  my  life  it  shall  be  my  settled  resolu- 
tion, that  I  will  never  depend  upon  the  smile  of  princes ;  tba< 
I  will  never  stand  exposed  to  the  artifices  of  courts*  I  will 
never  pant  for  public  honours,  nor  disturb  my  quiet  with  the 
affairs  of  state."  Such  was  mj^  scheme  of  life,  which  I  im.- 
pressed  indelibly  upon  my  memory. 

8  "  The  first  j  art  oi  rny  ensuing  time  was  to  be  spent  in 
search  of  knowledge,  and  1  know  not  how  I  was  diverted 
from  my  design.  I  had  no  visible  impediments  without,  nor 
any  ungovernable  passions  within.  I  regarded  knowledge 
as  the  highest  honour,  and  the  most  engaging  pleasure ;  yet 
day  stole  upon  day,  and  month  glided  after  mionth,  till  I 
found  that  seven  years  of  the  first  ten  had  vanished,  and 
left  nothing  behind  them. 

9  "I  now  postponed  my  purpose  of  travelling;  for  why 
should  I  go  abroad,  while  so  much  remained  to  be  learned  at 
home?  I  inimured  myself  for  four  years,  and  studied  the 
laws  of  the  empire.     The  fame  of  my  skill  reached  the  judges; 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  143 

I  was  found  able  to  speak  upon  doubtful  questions  ;  and  was 
commanded  to  stand  at  the  footstool  of  the  calif.  I  was 
heard  with  attention ;  I  was  consulted  with  confidence ;  and 
tlie  love  of  praise  fastened  on  my  heart. 

10  "  1  still  wished  to  see  distant  countries ;  listened  with 
rapture  to  the  relations  of  travellers  ;  and  resolved  some  time 
to  ask.  my  dismission,  that  1  might  feast  my  soul  with  novelty  : 
but  my  presence  was  always  necessary ;  and  the  stream  of 
business  hurried  me  along.  Sometimes  1  was  afraid  lest  I 
should  be  charged  with  ingratitude  :  but  T  still  proposed  to 
travel,  and  therefore  would  not  confine  myself  by  marriage. 

11  "In  my  fiftieth  year,  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  time 
of  travelling  was  past ;  and  thought  it  best  to  lay  liold  on 
the  felicity  yet  in  my  power,  and  indulge  myself  in  domestic 
pleasures.  But  at  fifty  no  man  easily  finds  a  woman  beauti- 
ful as  the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide.  I  inquired  and  re- 
jected, consulted  and  deliberated,  till  the  sixty-second  year 
made  me  ashamed  of  wishing  to  marry.  I  had  now  nothing 
lefl  but  retirement ;  and  for  retirement  I  never  found  a  time, 
till  disease  forced  me  from  public  employment. 

12  "  Such  was  my  scheme,  and  such  has  been  its  conse- 
quence. With  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge,  I  trilled 
away  the  years  of  improvement;  with  a  restless  desire  of  see- 
ing different  countries,  I  have  always  resided  in  the  same 
city  ;  with  the  highest  expectation  of  connubial  felicity,  1 
have  lived  unmarried  ;  and  with  unalterable  resolutions  oi" 
contemplative  retirement,  I  am  going  to  die  within  the  watts 
ofBagdat."  dr.  johnson. 

SECTION  XL 

The  pleasures  of  virtuous  sensibility. 

THE  good  effects  of  true  sensibility,  on  general  virtue 
and  happiness,  admit  of  no  dispute.  Let  us  consider  its  ef- 
fect on  the  happiness  of  him  who  possesses  it,  and  tlie  vari- 
ous pleasures  to  which  it  gives  him  access.  If  he  is  master 
of  riches  or  influence,  it  affords  him  the  means  of  inci'easing 
his  own  enjoyment,  by  relieving  the  wants,  or  increasing  the 
comforts  of  others.  If  he  commands  not  these  advantages^ 
yet  all  the  comforts  which  he  sees  in  the  possession  of  the 
deserving,  become  in  some  sort  his,  by  his  rejoicing  in  tlie 
good  which  they  enjoj*. 

2  Even  the  face  of  nature,  yields  a  satisfaction  to  him, 
which  the  insensible  can  never  know.  The  profusion  of 
goodness,  which  he  beholds  poured  forth  on  the  universe,  di- 
lates his  he3"t  with  the  thought,  that  innumerable  multitudes 
around  him,  are  blest  and  happy.     When  he  sees  the  labours 


1*1  The  English  Reader.  Part  1 

of  men  appearing  to  prosper,  and  views  a  country  flojirishing 
inwealth  and  industry;  when  he  beholds  the  spring  corning 
forth  in  its  beauty,  and  reviving  the  deca3'ed  face  of  nature  ; 
or  in  autumn,  beholds  the  fields  loaded  with  })Ienty,  and  the 
year  crowned  with  all  its  fruits  ;  he  lifts  his  atfections  with 
gratiiude  to  the  great  Father  of  all,  and  rejoices  in  the  gen- 
eral felicity  and  ']oy. 

3  It  may  indeed  be  objected,  that  the  same  sensibility  lays 
open  the  heart  to  be  pierced  with  many  wounds,  from  the 
distresses  which  abound  in  the  world ;  exposes  us  to  frequtnt 
suffering  from  the  participation  which  it  communicates  of 
the  sorrows,  as  well  as  the  joys  of  friendship.  But  let  it  be 
considered,  that  the  tender  melancholy  of  sympathy,  is  ac- 
companied with  a  sensation,  which  they  who  feel  it  would 
not  exchange  for  the  gratifications  of  the  selfish.  When  the 
heart  is  strongly  moved  by  any  of  the  kind  affections,  even 
when  it  pours  itself  forth  in  virtuous  sorrow,  a  secret  attrac- 
tive charm  mingles  wi(;h  the  painful  emotion  ;  there  is  a  joy 
m  the  midst  of  grief. 

4  Let  it  be  farther  considered,  that  the  griefs  which  sensi- 
bilitj'  introduces,  are  counterbalanced  by  pleasures  which  flow 
from  the  same  source.  Sensibility  heightens  in  general  the 
human  powers,  and  is  connected  with  acuteness  in  all  our 
feelings.  If  it  makes  us  more  alive  to  some  painful  sensations, 
in  return  it  renders  the  pleasing  ones  more  vivid  and  animated. 

5  The  selfish  m.an,  languishes  in  his  narrow  circle  of  plea- 
sttres.  They  are  confined  to  what  affects  his  own  interest. 
He  is  obliged  to  repeat  the  same  gratifications,  till  they  be- 
come insipid.  But  the  man  of  virtuous  sensibility,  moves  in 
a  wider  sphere  of  felicity.  His  powers  are  much  more  fre- 
quently called  forth  into  occupations  of  pleasing  activity. — 
Numberless  occasions  open  to  him  of  indulging  his  favourite 
taste,  by  conveying  satisfaction  toothers.  Often  it  is  in  his 
power,  in  oneway  or  other,  to  soothe  the  afflicted  heart,  to 
carry  some  consolation  into  the  house  of  wo. 

6  In  the  scenes  of  ordinary  life,  in  the  domestic  and  social 
intercourses  of  men,  the  cordiality  of  his  affections  cheers  and 
gladdens  him.  Every  appearance,  every  description  of  inno- 
cent happiness,  is  enjoyed  by  him.  Every  native  expres- 
sion of  kindness  and  affection  among  others,  is  felt  by  him, 
even  though  lie  be  not  the  object  of  it.  In  a  circle  of  friends 
enjoying  one  another,  he  is  as  happy  as  the  happiest. 

7  In  a  word,  he  lives  in  adifferent  sort  of  world,  from  that 
which  the  selfish  man  inhabits.  He  possesses  a  new  sense 
that  enables  him  to  behold  objects  which  the  ^elfish  cannot 
see.     At  the  same  time,  his  enjoyments  are  not  of  that  kind 


Ckap.  9  Promiscuous  Pieces.  )45 

which  remain  merely  on  the  surface  of  the  mind.  They  pe- 
netrate the  heart.  They  enlarg-e  and  elevate,  they  refii.e 
and  ennoble  it.  To  all  the  pleasing  emotions  of  affection, 
they  add  the  dignified  consciousness  of  virtue. 

8  Children  of  men  !  men  formed  by  nature  to  live  and  to 
feel  as  brethren  I  how  long  will  ye  continue  to  estrange 
yourselves  from  one  another  by  competitions  and  jealousies, 
when  in  cordial  union  ye  might  be  so  much  more  blesi  ? 
How  long  will  yc  seek  your  happiness  in  selfish  gratifications 
alone,  neglecting  those  purer  and  bettersources  of  joy,  which 
flow  from  the  affections  and  the  heart  ?  blair. 

SECTION  XII. 

On  the  true  honour  of  man. 
THE  proper  honour  of  man  arises  not  from  some  of  those 
splendid  actions  and  abilities,  which  excite  high  admiration. 
Courage  and  prowess,  militarj-  renown,  signal  victories  and 
conquests,  may  render  the  name  of  a  man  famous  without 
rendering  his  character  truly  honourable.  To  many  brave 
men,  to  many  heroes  renowned  in  story,  we  look  up  with 
wonder.  Their  exploits  are  recorded.  Their  praises  are 
sung.  They  stand,  as  on  an  eminence,  above  the  res't  of 
mankind.  Their  eminence,  nevertheless,  may  not  be  of 
that  sort,  before  which  we  bow  with  inward  esteem  and  re- 
spect. Something  more  is  wanted  for  that  purpose,  than  the 
conquering  arm,  and  the  intrepid  mind. 

2  The  laurels  of  the  warriour  must  at  all  times  be  dyed  in 
blood,  and  bedewed  with  the  tears  of  the  widow  and  the  or- 
phan. But  if  they  have  been  stained  by  rapine  and  inhu- 
manity ;  if  sordid  avarice  has  marked  his  character ;  or  low 
and  gross  sensuality  has  degraded  his  life;  the  great  hero 
sinks  into  a  Uttle  man.  What,  at  a  distance,  or  on  a  super- 
ficial view,  we  admired,  becomes  mean,  perhaps  odious, 
when  we  examine  it  more  closely.  It  is  like  the  Colossal 
statue,  whose  immense  size  struck  the  spectator  afar  off  with 
astonishment ;  but  when  nearly  viewed,  it  appears  dispro- 
portioned,  unshapely,  and  rude. 

3  Observations  of  the  same  kind  maybe  applied  to  all  the 
reputation  derived  from  civil  accomplishments ;  from  the 
refined  politics  of  the  statesman,  or  the  literary  efforts  nf  gen- 
ius and  erudition.  These  bestow,  and  within  certain  bounds 
ought  to  bestow,  eminence  and  distinction  on  men.  They 
discover  talents  which  in  themselves  are  shining ;  and  whicw 
become  highly  valuable,  when  employed  m  advancing  the 
good  of  mankind.     Hence,  they  frequently  give  rise  to  fame. 

N 


146  The  English  Render.  Part  1. 

Bui  a  distinction  is  to  be  made  bet^veen  fame  and  true  boD- 
oiir. 

4  Tbe  statesman,  the  orator,  or  the  poet,  may  be  famous ; 
tvhile  yet  the  man  himself  is  far  from  being-  honoured.  We 
envy  his  abilities.  We  wish  to  rival  them.  But  we  would 
not  choose  to  be  classed  with  him  who  possesses  them.  In- 
stances of  this  sort  are  too  often  found  in  everj'  record  of  an- 
cient or  modern  history. 

5  From  all  this  it  follows,  that  in  order  to  discern  where 
man's  true  honour  lies,  we  must  look,  not  to  any  adventitious 
circumstances  of  fortune  ;  not  to  any  single  sparkling  quali- 
ty ;  but  to  the  whole  of  what  forms  a  man  ;  what  entitles  him, 
as  such,  to  rank  high  among  that  class  of  beings  to  which 
he  belongs  ;  in  a  word,  we  must  look  to  the  mind  and  the  soul 

6  A  mind  superiour  to  fear,  to  selfish  interest  and  corrup- 
tion ;  a  mind  governed  by  the  principles  of  uniform  recti- 
tude and  integrity  ;  the  same  in  prosperity  and  adversity  ; 
which  no  bribe  can  seduce,  nor  terrour  overawe  ;  neither 
by  pleasure  melted  into  effeminacy,  nor  by  distress  sunk 
into  dejection  :  such  is  the  mind  which  forms  the  distinction 
and  eminence  of  man. 

7  One  who,  in  no  situation  of  life,  is  either  ashamed  or  afraid 
of  discharging  his  dut}',and  acting  his  proper  part  with  firm- 
ness and  constancy  ;  true  to  the  God  whom  he  worships, 
and  true  to  the  faith  in  which  he  professes  to  believe  ;  full  of 
affection  to  his  brethren  of  mankind  ;  faithful  to  his  friends, 
generous  to  his  enemies,  warm  with  compassion  to  the  un- 
fortunate;  self-denying  to  little  private  interests  and  plea- 
sures, but  zealous  for  public  interest  and  happiness  ;  mag- 
nanimous, without  being  proud ;  humble,  without  being- 
mean  ;  just,  without  bemg  harsh  ;  simple  in  his  manners,  but 
manly  in  his  feelmgs  ;  on  wliose  word  we  can  entirely  rely  ; 
wtiose  countenance  never  deceives  us  ;  whose  professions 
of  kindness  are  the  eflusions  of  his  heart :  one,  in  fine,  whom, 
independcntl}^  of  any  views  of  advantage,  we  should  choose 
for  a  superiour,  could  trust  as  a  friend,  and  could  love  as  a 
brother — this  is  the  map,  whom,  in  our  heart,  above  all  oth- 
ers, we  do,  we  must  honour  blair. 

SECTION  XIII. 

The  inji.uence  of  devotion  on  the  happiness  of  life. 
WII ATEVER  promotes  and  streng-thens  virtue,  whatever 
calms  and  regulates  the  temper,  is  a  source  of  happiness. 
Devotion  produces  tlicse  cfiects  in  a  remarkable  degree.  It 
inspires  composure  of  spirit,  mildne«=.  and  benignitv ; 
weakens  the  j^amful,  and  rherishcs  the   pleasing  emotions 


Chap.  9.  Proviisciwus  Pieces.  147 

and,  by  these  means,  carries  on  the  life  of  a  pious  man  in  a 
smootli  and  placid  tenour. 

2  Besides  exerting  this  habitual  influence  on  the  mind,  de- 
votion opens  a  field  of  enjoyments,  to  which  the  vicious  are 
entire  strangers;  enjoyments  tlie  more  valuable,  as  they  pe- 
culiarly belong  to  retirement,  when  the  world  leaves  us";  and 
to  adversit}",  when  it  becomes  our  foe.  These  are  the  two 
seasons,  for  which  every  wise  man  would  most  wish  to  pro- 
vide some  hidden  store  of  comfort. 

3  For  let  him  be  placed  in  the  most  favorable  situation 
which  the  haman  state  admits,  the  world  can  neither  always 
femuse  him,  nor  always  shield  him  from  distress.  There  will 
be  many  hours  of  vacuity,and  many  of  dejection,  in  his  life. 
If  he  be  a  stranger  to  God,  and  to  devotion,  how  dreary  will  the 
gloom  of  solitude  often  prove  !  With  what  oppressive  weight 
will  sickness,  disappointment,  or  old  age,  fall  upon  his  spirits  ! 

4  But  for  those  pensive  periods,  the  pious  man  has  a  relief 
prepared.  From  the  tiresome  repetition  of  the  common 
vanities  of  life,  or  from  the  painful  corrosion  of  its  cares  and 
sorrows,  devotion  transports  him  into  a  new  region ;  and  sur- 
rounds him  there  with  such  objects,  as  are  the  most  fitted 
to  cheer  the  dejection,  to  calm  the  tumults,  and  to  heal  the 
wounds  of  his  heart. 

5  If  tiie  world  has  been  empty  and  delusive,  it  gladdens 
him  ^vith  the  prospect  of  a  higher  and  better  order  of  things, 
about  to  arise.  If  men  have  been  ungrateful  and  base,  it  dis- 
plays before  him  the  faithfulness  of  that  Supreme  Being,  who, 
though  every  other  friend  fail,  will  never  forsake  him. 

6  Let  us  consult  our  experience,  and  we  shall  find,  that 
the  two  greatest  sources  of  inward  joy,  are,  the  exercise  of 
love  directed  towards  a  deserving  object,  and  the  exercise 
of  hope  terminating  on  some  high  and  assured  happiness. 
Both  these  are  supplied  by  devotion  ;  and  therefore  we  have 
no  reason  to  be  surprised,  if,  on  some  occasions,  it  iills  the 
hearts  of  good  men  with  a  satisfaction  not  to  be  expressed. 

7  The  refined  pleasures  of  a  pious  mind  are,  in  many  res- 
pects, superiour  to  the  coarse  gratifications  of  sense.  They 
are  pleasures  which  belong  to  the  highest  powers  and  best 
affections  of  the  soul ;  whereas  the  gratifications  of  sense 
reside  in  the  lowest  region  of  our  nature.  To  the  latter,  the 
soul  stoops  below  its  native  dignity.  The  former,  raise  it 
above  itself.  The  latter,  leave  always  a  comfortless,  often 
a  mortifying,  remembrance  behind  them.  The  former,  are 
reviewed  with  applause  and  delight. 

8  The  pleasures  of  sense  resemble  a  foaming  torrent, 
whicli,  after  a  disorderly  course,  speedily  runs  out,  and  leaves 


118  TTie  English  Reader.  Parti 

an  empty  an  offensive  channel.  But  the  pleasures  of  devo- 
tion resemble  the  equable  current  of  a  pure  river,  which 
enlivens  the  fields  throug-ii  which  it  passes,  and  diffuses  ver- 
dure and  fertility  along'  its  banks. 

9  To  thee,  O  Devotio-n  !  we  owe  the  highest  improvement 
of  our  nature,  and  much  of  the  enjoyment  of  our  life.  Thou 
art  the  support  of  our  virtue,  and  the  rest  of  o\ir  souls, 
in  this  turbulent  world.  Thou  coinposest  the  thoughts. 
Thou  calmest  the  passions.  Thou  exaltest  the  heart.  Thy 
communications,  and  thine  only,  are  imparted  to  the  low 
no  less  than  to  tlie  high  ;  to  the  poor,  as  well  as  to  the  rich. 

10  In  thy  presence,  worldly  distinctions  cease ;  and  under 
thy  influence,  worldly  sorrows  are  forgotten.  Thou  art  the 
balm  of  the  wounded  mind.  Thy  sanctuary  is  ever  open  to 
the  miserable;  inaccessible  only  to  the  unrighteous  and  im- 
pure. Thou  beginnest  on  earth  the  temper  of  heaven.  In 
thee,  the  hosts  of  angels  and  blessed  spirits  eternally  re- 
joice. BLAIR. 

SECTION'  XIV. 
Tlie planetary  and  lerrcslrialworkls  comparatively  considered. 
TO  us,  who  dwell  on  its  surface,  the  earth  is  by  far  the 
most  extensive  orb  that  our  eyes  can  any  where  behold:  it  is 
also  clothed  with  verdure,  distinguished  by  trees,  and  adorn- 
ed with  a  variety  of  beautiful  decorations;  whereas,  to  a 
spectator  placed  on  one  of  the  planets,  it  wears  a  uniform  as- 
pect; looks  all  luminous;  and  no  larger  than  a  spot.  To  beings 
who  dtvell  at  still  greater  distances,  it  entirely  disappears. 

2  That  which  we  call  alternately  the  morning  and  the 
evening  star,  (as  in  one  pai't  of  the  orbit  she  rides  foremost 
m  the  procession  of  night,  in  the  other  ushers  in  and  antici- 
pates the  dawn,)  is  a  planetary  world.  This  planet,  and  the 
four  others  that  so  wonderfully  vary  their  mystic  dance,  are 
in  themselves  dark  bodies,  and  sVilne  only  by  reflections ; 
have  fields,  and  seas,  and  skies  of  their  own;  are  furnished 
with  all  accommodations  for  animal  subsistence,  and  are 
supposed  to  be  the  abodes  of  intellectual  life ;  all  which, 
together  with  our  earthly  habitation,  are  dependent  on  that 
grand  dispenser  of  Divine  munificence,  the  sun  ;  receive 
their  light  from  the  distribution  of  his  rays,  and  derive  their 
comfort  from  his  benign  agency. 

3  The  sun,  which  seems  to  perform  its  daily  stages  through 
the  sky,  is,  in  this  respect,  fixed,  and  immoveable ;  it  is  the 
great  axle  of  heaven,  about  which  the  globe  we  inhabit,  and 
other  more  spacious  orbs,  wheel  their  stated  courses.  The 
suu,   though   seemingly   smaller  tlian  the    dial   it  illumin- 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  149 

ates,  is  more  than  a  million  times  larger  than  this  whole  earth 
on  which  so  many  lofty  mountains  rise,  and  such  vast  oceans 
roll.  A  line  extending'  from  side  to  side  tlirough  the  cen- 
tre of  that  resplendant  orb,  would  measure  more  than  eight 
hundred  thousand  miles  :  a  girdle  formed  to  go  round  its  cir- 
cumference, would  require  a  length  of  millions.  Were  its  so- 
lid contents  to  be  estimated,  the  account  would  overwhelm  our 
understanding,  and  be  almost  beyond  the  power  of  language 
to  express.     Are  we  startled  at  these  reports  of  philosophy  ! 

4  Are  we  ready  to  cry  out  in  a  transport  of  surprise, 
"How  mighty  is  the  Being  who  kindled  so  prodigious  a  fire; 
and  keeps  alive,  from  age  to  age,  so  enormous  a  mass  of 
flame  !"  let  us  attend  our  pliilosophical  guides,  and  we  shall 
be  brought  acquainted  with  speculations  more  enlarged  and 
more  inflaming. 

5  This  sun,  with  all  its  attendant  planets,  is  but  a  very 
little  part  of  the  grand  machine  of  the  universe:  every  star, 
tliough  in  apj)earance  no  bigger  than  the  diamond  that  glit- 
ters upon  a  lady's  ring,  is  really  a  vast  globe,  like  the  sun  in 
size,  and  in  glory;  no  less  spacious,  no  less  luminous,  than 
the  radiant  source  of  day.  So  that  every  star,  is  not  bare- 
ly a  world,  but  the  centre  of  a  magnificent  system ;  has 
a  retinue  of  worlds,  irradiated  by  its  beams,  and  revolving 
round  its  attractive  influence,  all  wiiich  are  lost  to  our  sight 
in  unmeasurable  wilds  of  ether. 

6  That  the  stars  appear  like  so  many  diminutive,  and 
scarcely  distinguishable  points,  is  owing  to  their  immense 
and  inconceivable  distance.  Immense  and  inconceivable 
indeed  it  is,  since  a  ball,  shot  from  the  loaded  cannon,  and  flying 
with  unabated  rapidity,  must  travel,  at  this  impetuous  rate,  al- 
most seven  hundred  thousand  years,  before  it  could  reach  the 
nearest  of  these  twinkling  luminaries. 

7  While,  beholding  this  vast  expanse,  I  learn  my  own  ex- 
treme meanness,  I  would  also  discover  the  abject  littleness 
of  all  terrestrial  things.  What  is  the  earth,  with  all  her  os- 
tentatious scenes,  compared  with  this  astonishing  grand  fur- 
niture of  the  skies  ?  What,  but  a  dim  speck,  hardly  perceiva- 
ble in  the  map  of  the  universe? 

8  It  is  observed  by  a  very  judicious  writer,  that  if  the  sun 
himself,  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation,  were  ex- 
tinguished, and  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds,  which  mo\"e 
about  him,  were  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  missed  by  an 
eye  that  can  take  in  the  whole  compass  of  nature,  any  more 
than  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  bulk  of  which 
they  consist,  and  the  space  which  they  occupy,  are  so  exceed- 
inglv  little  in  comparison  of  the  whole,  that  their  loss  would 
scarcely  leave  a  blank  in  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 


150  77ie  English  Render.  Part  I 

If  then,  not  onr  f^lohe  onlj-,  but  tins  wliolc  sj'stcm,  be 
so  very  diminutive,  what  is  a  kingdom,  or  a  cou;iUy  ?  What 
are  a  few  lordships,  or  (he  so  much  admired  |.ut simonies  of 
those  who  are  styled  Mcalthy?  When  I  measure  them  with 
mj'  own  little  pittance,  they  swell  into  proud  and  bloated 
dimensions:  but  when  I  take  (he  universe  for  my  standard, 
how  scanty  is  their  size!  how  contemptible  their  figure  I 
They  shrink  into  pompous  nothings.  abdison. 

SECTION  XV. 
On  the  power  of  cvstoni,  and  the  uses  to  which  it  may  be  applied. 
THERE  is  not  a  common  saying,  which  has  a  better  turn 
of  sense  in  it,  than  what  we  often  hear  in  the  mouths  of  the 
vulgar,  that  "  Custom  is  a  second  nature."  It  is  indeed  able 
to  form  man  anew  ;  and  give  him  inclinations  and  caj^aci- 
cies  altogether  ditTercnt  from  those  he  was  born  with. 

2  A  person  who  is  addicted  to  play  or  gaming,  tho\igh  he 
took  but  little  delight  in  it  at  first,  by  degrees  contracts  so 
strong  an  inrlinadon  towards  it,  and  gives  himself  up  so  en- 
tirely to  it,  that  it  seems  the  only  end  of  his  being.  The  love 
of  a  retired  or  busy  life  will  grow  upon  a  man  inscnsiblj-,  ais 
he  is  conversant  in  (he  one  or  the  o(her,  (ill  he  is  utterlv  un- 
qualified for  relishing  that  to  which  he  has  been  for  somelimi* 
disused. 

3  Nay,  a  man  may  smoke,  or  drink,  or  take  snuff,  till  he 
is  unable  to  pass  away  his  time,  without  it;  not  to  mention 
how  our  delight  in  any  particular  study,  art,  or  science, 
rises  and  improves,  in  proportion  to  the  application  which 
we  bestow  upon  it.  Thus,  what  was  at  first  an  exercise,  be- 
comes at  length  an  entertainment.  Our  employments  are 
changed  into  diversions.  The  mind  grows  fond  of  those  ac- 
tions it  is  accustomed  to;  and  is  drawn  willi  reluctancy  from 
tliose  paths  in  Avhich  it  has  been  used  to  walk. 

4  If  we  attentively  consider  this  property  of  human  nature, 
It  may  instruct  us  in  very  fine  moralities.  Inthe  first  place, 
I  would  have  no  man  discouraged  with  that  kind  of  life,  or 
series  of  action,  in  which  Uie  choice  of  others,  or  his  own  ne- 
cessities, may  have  engaged  him.  Itmayperhaps  be  very  disa- 
greeable to  him,  at  first;  but  use  ana  application  will  certainly 
renderitnotonly  less  painful,  but  pleasing  and  sat islactor)'. 

5  In  the  second  place,  I  would  reccuunend  to  every  one, 
the  admirable  precept,  which  Pythagoras  is  said  to  have 
given  to  his  disciples,  and  which  that  philosopher  must  have 
drawn  from  tlic  observation  I  have  enlarged  upon:  "Pitch 
upon  that  course  of  life  which  is  the  most  excellent,  and 
custom  will  render  it  the  most  delightful  ■" 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  151 

6  Men,  whose  circumstances  will  permit  them  to  choose 
their  own  way  of  life,  are  inexcusable  if  they  do  not  pursue 
that  which  their  judgment  tells  tliem  is  the  most  laudable. — 
The  voice  of  reason  is  more  to  be  rep^arded,  than  the  bent 
of  anj  present  inclination  :  since,  by  the  rule  above  mentioh- 
tioned,  inclination  will  at  length  come  over  to  reason,  though 
we  can  never  force  reason  to  comply  with  inclination. 

7  In  the  third  place,  this  observation  may  teach  the  most 
sensual  and  irreligious  man,  to  overlook  those  hardships  and 
ditliculties,  which  are  apt  to  discourage  him  from  the  prose- 
cution of  a  virtuous  life.  "  The  gods,"  said  Hcsiod,  "  have 
placed  labour  before  virtue  ;  the  way  to  her  is  at  first  rough 
and  difBcult,  but  grows  more  smooth  and  easy  the  farther  we 
advance  in  it."  The  man  who  proceeds  in  it  with  steadinesa 
and  resolution,  will,  in  a  litletime,  find  that  "her  ways  are 
ways  of  pleasantness,  and  that  all  her  paths  are  peace." 

8  To  enforce  this  consideration,  we  may  further  observe, 
that  the  practice  of  religion  will  not  only  be  attended  with 
that  pleasure  which  naturally  accompanies  those  actions  to 
which  we  are  habituated,  but  with  those  supernumerary  joys 
of  heart,  that  rise  from  the  consciousness  of  such  a  pleasure  ; 
from  the  satisfaction  of  acting  up  to  the  dictates  of  reason  ; 
and  from  the  prospect  of  a  happy  immortality. 

9  In  the  fourth  place,  we  may  leara  from  this  observation 
which  we  have  made  on  the  mind  of  man.  to  take  particular 
cars,  when  we  are  once  settled  in  a  regular  course  of  life, 
how  we  too  frequently  indulge  ourselves  in  even  the  most 
innocent  diversions  and  entertainments  ;  since  the  mind  may 
insensibly  fall  otf  from  the  relish  of  virtuous  actions,  and  by 
degrees,  exchange  that  pleasure  which  it  takes  in  the  per- 
formance of  its  dut)',  for  delights  of  a  much  in^eriour  and  an 

'unprofitable  nature. 

iO  The  last  use  which  I  shall  make  of  this  remarkable  pro- 
perty in  human  nature,  of  being  delighted  with  those  actions 
to  which  it  is  accustomed,  is,  to  show  how  absolutely  necessary 
it  is  for  us  to  gain  habits  of  virtue  in  this  life,  if  we  would  en- 
joy the  pleasures  of  the  next.  The  state  of  bliss  we  call 
heaven,  will  not  be  capable  of  affecting  those  minds  which 
are  not  thus  qualified  for  it :  we  must,  in  this  world,  gain  a 
relish  for  truth  and  virtue,  if  we  would  be  able  to  taste  thai 
knowledge  and  perfection,  which  are  to  make  us  happy  in 
the  Tiext.  The  seeds  of  those  spiritual  joys  and  raptures, 
which  are  to  rise  up  and  flourisli  in  the  soul  to  all  eternity, 
must  be  planted  in  it  during  this  its  present  state  of  probation. 
In  short,  heaven  is  not  to  be  looked  upon  only  as  the  reward, 
but  as  the  natural  effect  of  a  religious  life.  addison. 


1S2:  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

SECTION  XVI 

The  pleasures  resulting  from  aproper  use  of  our  fanxitits. 

HAPPY  that  man,  who,  unembarrassed  by  vulgar  cares, 
roaster  of  himself,  his  time,  and  fortune,  spends  his  time  ia 
making  himself  wiser  ;  and  his  fortune,  in  making  others 
[and  tlierefore  himself)  happier:  who,  as  the  will  and  undf  r- 
standing,  are  the  two  ennobling  faculties  of  the  soul,  thinks 
himself  not  complete,  till  his  understanding  is  beautified 
with  the  valuable  furniture  of  knowledge,  as  well  as  his  will 
enriched  with  every  virtue;  who  has  furnished  himself  with 
all  the  advantages  to  relish  solitude,  and  enliven  conversa- 
tion ;  who,  when  serious,  is  not  sullen ;  and  when  cheerful, 
not  indiscreetly  gay  ;  whose  ambition  is,  not  to  be  admired 
for  a  false  glare  of  greatness,  but  to  be  beloved  for  the  gen- 
tle and  sober  lustre  of  his  wisdom  and  goodness. 

2  The  greatest  minister  of  state,  has  not  more  business  to 
do,  in  a  public  capacity,  than  he,  and  indeed  every  other 
man,  may  find  in  the  retired  and  still  scenes  of  life.  Even 
in  his  private  walks,  every  thing  that  is  visible,  convinces 
him  there  is  present  a  Being  invisible.  Aided  by  natural 
philosophy,  he  reads  plain,  legible  traces  of  the  Divinity,  in 
every  thing  he  meets  :  he  sees  the  Deity  in  every  tree,  as 
well  as  Moses  did  in  the  burning  bush,  though  not  in  soglai 
ing  a  manner  :  and  when  he  sees  him  he  adores  him,  with 
the  tribute  of  a  grateful  heart.  seed. 

SECTION  XVII. 

Description  of  candour. 
TRUE  candour  is  altogether  different  from  that  guarded, 
inoffensive  language,  and  that  studied  openness  of  behaviour 
which  we  so  frequently  meet  with  among  men  of  the  world.  ^ 
Smiling,  very  often,  is  the  aspect,  and  smooth  are  the  words 
of  tho.5e.  who,  inwardly,  are  the  most  ready  to  think  evil  of 
others.  That  candour  which  is  a  Christian  virtue,  consists, 
not  in  fairness  of  speech,  but  in  fairness  of  heart. 

2  It  may  want  the  blandishment  of  external  courtesy,  but 
supplies  its  place  with  a  humane  and  generous  liberality  uf 
sentiment.  Its  manners  are  unsffpcted,  and  its  professions 
cordial.  Exempt,  on  one  liana,  from  the  dark  jealousy  of  a 
Kuspicious  mind,  it  is  no  less  removed,  on  the  other,  from 
that  easy  credulity  which  is  imposed  on  hy  every  specious 
pretence.  It  is  perfectly  consistent  with  extensive  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  and  with  due  attention  to  our  own  safety. 

3  In  that  various  intercourse,  which  v.-e  are  ob!;ced  to  car- 
ry on  with  person^  of  every  different   character,    suspicion, 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  153 

to  a  certain  degree,  is  a  necessary  guard.  It  is  only  when 
it  exceeds  the  bounds  ofprudent  caution,  that  it  degenerates 
into  vice.  There  is  a  proper  mean  between  undistinguish- 
ed credulity,  and  universal  jealousy,  which  a  sound  under- 
standing discerns,  and  which  the  man  of  candour  studies  to 
preserve. 

4  He  makes  allowance  for  the  mixture  of  evil  with  good, 
which  is  to  be  found  in  every  human  character.  He  expects 
none  to  be  faultless,  and  he  is  unwilling  to  believe  that  there 
is  any  without  some  commendable  qualities.  In  the  midst 
of  many  defects,  he  can  discover  a  virtue.  Under  the  influ- 
ence of  personal  resentment,  he  can  be  just  to  the  merit  of 
an  enemy. 

5  He  never  lends  an  open  ear  to  those  defamatory  reports 
and  dark  suggestions,  which,  among  the  tribes  of  the  censo- 
sorious,  circulate  with  so  much  rapidity,  and  meet  with  so 
ready  acceptance.  He  is  not  hasty  to  judge;  and  he  re- 
quires full  evidence  before  he  will  condemn. 

6  As  long  as  an  action  can  be  ascribed  to  different  mo- 
tives, he  holds  it  as  no  mark  of  sagacity  to  impute  it  always 
to  the  worst.  Where  there  isjustgroundfor  doubt,  he  keeps 
'/lis  judgment  undecided  ;  and,  during  the  period  of  suspense, 
leans  to  the  most  charitable  construction  which  an  action 
can  bear.  When  he  must  condemn,  he  condemns  with  re' 
gret ;  and  without  those  aggravations  which  the  severity  of 
others  adds  to  the  crime.  He  listens  calmlj'  to  the  apology 
of  the  offender,  and  readily  admits  every  extenuating  cir- 
cumstance, which  equity  can  suggest. 

7  How  much  soever  he  may  blame  the  principles  of  any 
sect  or  party,  he  never  confounds,  under  one  general  censure, 
sllwho  belong  to  that  partj'  or  sect.  He  charges  them  not 
with  such  consequences  of  their  tenets,  as  they  refuse  and 
disavow.  From  one  wrong  opinion,  he  does  not  infer  ihe 
subversion  of  all  sound  principles  ;  nor  from  one  bad  action, 
conclude  that  all  regard  to  conscience  is  overthrown. 

8  When  he  "beholds  the  mote  in  his  brother's  eye,"  he 
remembers  "  the  beam  in  his  own."  He  commiserates  hu- 
man frailty,  and  judges  of  others  according  to  the  principles, 
hy  which  he  would  think  it  reasonable  that  they  should  judge 
of  him.  In  a  word  he  views  men  and  actions  in  the  clear 
sunshine  of  charity  and  good  nature;  and  not  in  that  dark 
and  sullen  shade  which  jealousy  and  party-spirit  throw  ovei 
all  characters.  blair. 


164  Tlie  English  Reader.  Part    1. 

SECTION  XVIII. 

On  the  imperfection  of  that  happiness  uhich  rests  solely  on 
worldly  pleasures 

THE  vanity  of  human  pleasures  is  a  topic  which  might  be 
embellished  w  ith  tlie  pomp  of  much  des^criptiou.  But  1  shall 
studiously  avoid  exag-geration,  and  only  point  out  a  threefold 
Tanily  in  human  life,  wliich  every  impartial  observer  can- 
not but  admit ;  disappointment  in  pursuit,  dissatisfaction  in 
enjojment,  uncertainty  in  possession. 

2  First,  disappointment  in  pursuit.  When  we  lock  around 
us  on  the  world,  we  every  where  behold  a  busy  multitude, 
intent  on  the  prosecution  of  various  desig-ns,  vihich  tlieir 
wants  or  desires  have  sugg^ested.  We  behold  them  employ- 
ing every  method  which  ing^enuity  can  devise ;  some  the  pa- 
tience of  industry,  some  the  boldness  of  enterprise,  oihers 
the  dexterity  of  stratagem,  in  order  to  compass  their  ends. 

4  Of  this  incessant  stir  and  activity,  what  is  the  fruit  i  in 
comparison  of  the  ci'owd  who  have  toiled  in  voin,  how  small 
is  the  number  of  the  successful  ?  Or  ratlier,  where  is  tl^ie 
man  who  will  declare,  that  in  every  point  he  has  completed 
his  plan,  and  attained  his  utmost  wish  ? 

4  No  extentof  human  abilities  has  been  able  to  discover  » 
path  which,  in  any  line  of  life,  leads  unerringly  to  success 
"•  The  race  is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the 
strong,  nor  riches  to  men  of  understanding."  We  may 
form  our  plans  with  the  most  profound  sagacity,  and  with 
the  most  vigilant  caution  may  guard  against  dangers  on  eve- 
ry side.  But  some  unforeseen  occurrence  comes  across, 
which  baffles  our  wisdom,  and  lays  our  labours  in  the  dust. 

5  Were  such  disappointments  confined  to  those  who  as- 
pire at  engrossing  the  higher  departnn.ents  of  life,  tlie  misfor- 
tune would  be  less.  The  humiliation  of  the  might}-,  and  the 
fall  of  ambition  from  its  towering  height,  little  concern  the 
bulk  of  mankind.  These  are  objects  on  which,  as  on  distant 
meteors,  they  gaze  from  afar,  without  drawing  personal  in- 
struction from  events  so  much  above  them. 

6  But,  alas  I  when  we  descend  into  the  regions  of  private 
life,  we  find  disappointment  and  blasted  hope  equally  preva- 
lent there.  Neither  the  moderation  of  our  views,  nor  the 
justice  of  cur  pretensions,  can  ensure  success.  But  "  time 
and  chance  happen  to  all."  Against  the  stream  of  events,  both 
the  worthy  and  the  undeserving  are  obliged  to  struggle  ; 
and  both  are  frequently  overborne  alike  by  the  current. 

7  Besides  disappointment  in  pursuit,  dissatisfaction  in  en- 
joyment is  a  farther  vanity,  to   which  the  human  state  is 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  155 

subject.  This  is  the  severest  of  all  mortifications;  after 
having'  been  successful  in  the  pursuit,  to  be  baffled  in  the 
enjoyment  itself!  Yet  this  is  found  to  be  an  evil  still  more 
g-eueral  than  the  former.  Some  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
attain  what  they  have  pursued  ;  but  none  are  rendered  com- 
pletely happy  by  what  they  have  attained. 

8  Disappointed  hope  is  misery;  and  yetsuccessful  hope  is 
only  imperfect  bliss.  Look  throug-h  all  the  ranks  of  man- 
kind. Examine  the  condition  of  those  who  appear  most 
prosperous ;  and  you  will  find  that  they  are  never  just  what 
they  desire  to  be.  If  retired,  they  languish  for  action ;  if 
Ijusy,  they  com[)lain  of  fatigue.  If  in  middle  life,  they  are 
impatient  for  distinction;  if  in  high  stations,  they  sigh  after 
freedom  and  ease.  Something  is  still  wanting  to  that  pleni- 
tude of  satisfaction,  which  they  expected  to  acquire.  To- 
gether with  every  wish  that  is  g'ratified,  a  new  demand  arises. 
One  void  opens  in  the  heart,  as  another  is  tilled.  On  wishes 
wishes  g'row;  and  to  the  end,  it  is  rather  the  expectation  of 
Hrhat  they  have  not,  than  the  enjoyment  of  what  they  have, 
vhicli  occupies  and  interests  the  most  successful. 

9  This  dissatisfaction  in  the  midst  of  human  pleasure, 
springs  partly  from  thenatureofour  enjoyments  themselves, 
and  partly  from  circumstances  which  corrupt  them.  No 
wordly  enjoyments  are  adequate  to  the  high  desires  and 
powers  of  an  immortal  spirit.  Fancy  paints  them  at  a  dis- 
tance with  splendid  colours  ;  but  possession  unveils  the  falla- 
cy. The  eagerness  of  passion  bestows  upon  them,  at  first,  a 
brisk  and  lively  relish.  But  it  is  their  fate  always  to  pall  by- 
familiarity,  and  sometimes  to  pass  from  satiet)'  into  disgust. 

10  Happy  would  the  poor  man  think  himself,  if  he  could 
enter  on  all  the  treasures  of  the  rich;  and  happy  for  a  short 
time  he  might  be:  but  before  he  had  long  contemplated  and 
admired  his  state,  his  possessions  would  seem  to  lessen,  and 
his  cares  would  grow. 

1 1  Add  to  the  unsatisfying  nature  of  our  pleasures,  the  at- 
tending circumstances  which  never  fail  to  corrupt  them. 
For  such  as  they  are,  the^are  at  no  time  possessed  unmixed. 
To  human  lips  it  is  not  given  to  taste  the  cup  of  pure  joy. 
When  external  circumstances  show  fairest  to  the  world,  the 
envied  man  groans  in  private  under  liis  own  burden.  Some 
vexation  disquiets,  some.passion  corrodes  him  ;  somedistress, 
either  felt  or  feared,  gnaws  like  a  worm,  the  root  of  his  feliri- 
ty.  When  there  is  nothing  from  witliout  to  disturb  the  pros- 
perous, a  secret  poison  operates  within.  For  worliliy  hap- 
piness ever  tends  todestro)'  itself,  by  corrupting  the  heart. 
It  fosters  the  loose  and  the  violent  passions.     It    engenders 


156  The  English  Reader.  Part.]. 

noxious  habits;  and  taints  the  mind  with  false  delicacy,  which 
makes  it  feel  a  thousand  unreal  evils. 

i'2  But  put  the  case,  in  the  most  favourable  light.  Lav 
aside  from  human  pleasures  both  disappointment  in  pursuit 
and  deceitfulness  in  enjoyment;  suppose  them  to  be  fully  at- 
tainable, and  completely  satisfactorj- ;  still  there  remains  to 
be  considered  the  vanity  of  uncertain  possession  and  short 
duration.  Were  there  in  worldly  tilings  any  fixed  point  of 
security  which  we  could  gain,  the  mind  would  then  have 
some  basis  on  which  to  rest. 

13  But  our  condition  is  such,  that  every  thing  wavers  and 
totters  around  us.  "  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ;  for 
thou  knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth."  It  is 
much  if,  during  its  course,  thou  hearest  not  of  somewhat  to 
disquiet  or  alarm  thee.  For  life  never  proceeds  long  in  a 
uniform  train.     Itiscontinually  varied  by  unexpected  events. 

14  The  seeds  of  alteration  are  every  where  sown  ;  and  the 
sunshine  of  prosperity  commonly  accelerates  their  growth. 
If  our  enjoyments  are  numerous,  we  lie  more  open  on  dif- 
ferent sides  to  be  wounded.  If  we  have  possessed  them  long, 
we  have  greater  cause  to  dread  an  approaching  change. 
By  slow  degrees  prosperity  rises  ;  but  rapid  is  the  progress 
of  evil.     It  requires  no  preparation  to  bring  it  forward. 

15  The  edifice  which  it  cost  much  time  and  labour  to 
erect,  one  inauspicious  event,  one  sudden  blow,  can  level 
with  the  dust.  Even  supposing  the  accidents  of  life  to 
leave  us  untouched,  human  bliss  must  still  be  transitory ;  for 
man  changes  of  himself.  No  course  of  enjoyment  can  de- 
light us  long.  What  amused  our  youth,  loses  its  charm  in 
matu'-er  age.  As  years  advance,  our  powers  are  blunted, 
and  our  pleasurable  feelings  decline. 

16  The  silent  lapse  of  time  is  ever  carrying  somewhat 
from  us,  till  at  length  the  period  comes,  when  all  must  be 
swept  awa)'.  The  prospect  of  this  termination  of  ou  r  labours 
and  pursuits,  is  sufficient  to  mark  our  state  with  vanity. 
"  Our  days  are  a  hand's  breadth,  and  our  age  is  as  nothing." 
Within  tiiat  little  space  is  all  our  enterprise  bounded.  We 
crowd  it  with  toils  and  cares,  with  contention  and  strLOs. 
We  project  great  designs,  entertain  high  hopes,  and  then 
leave  our  plans  unfinished,  and  sink  into  oblivion. 

17  This  much  let  it  suffice  to  have  said  concerning  the 
vanity  of  the  world.  That  too  much  has  not  been  said,  must 
appear  to  every  one  who  considers  how  generally  mankind 
lean  to  the  opposite  side  ;  and  how  often,  by  undue  attachment 
to  the  present  state,  they  both  feed  the  most  sinful  passions, 
and  "  piercethemselves  through  with  many  sorrows."  BLAiH 


Chap.  9.  Promisciunm  Pieces,  157 

SECTION  XIX. 

fVhat  are  the  real  and  solid  enjoyments  of  human  lije. 
It  must  be  admitted,  that  unmixed  and  complete  happi- 
ness, is  unknown  on  earth.  No  rei^ulation  of  conduct  can 
altogether  prevent  passions  from  disturbing  our  peace,  and 
misfortunes  from  wounding-  our  heart.  But  after  this  con- 
cession is  made,  will  it  follow,  that  there  is  no  object  on  earth 
which  deserves  our  pursuit,  or  that  all  enjoyment  becomes 
contemptible  which  is  not  perfect  ?  Let  us  survey  our  state 
with  an  impartial  eye,  and  be  just  to  the  various  gifts  of  Heaven. 

2  How  rain  soever  this  life,  considered  in  itself,  may  be, 
Ihe  comforts  and  hopes  of  religion,  are  sufficient  to  give  so- 
lidity to  the  enjoyments  of  the  righteous.  In  the  exercise  of 
good  affections,  and  the  testimony  of  an  approving  conscience ; 
in  the  sense  of  peace  and  reconciliation  with  God,  through 
the  great  Redeemer  of  mankind ;  in  the  firm  confidence  of 
being  conducted  through  all  the  trials  of  life,  by  infinite 
Wisdom  and  Goodness  ;  and  in  the  joyful  prospect  of  arriv- 
ing in  the  end,  at  immortal  felicity;  they  possess  a  happiness 
which,  descending  from  a  purer  and  more  perfect  region 
than  this  world,  partakes  not  of  its  vanity. 

3  Besides  the  enjoyments  peculiar  to  religion,  there  are 
other  pleasures  of  our  present  state,  which,  though  of  an  m- 
feriourorder,  must  not  be  overlooked  in  the  estimate  of  hu. 
man  life.  It  is  necessary  to  call  the  attention  to  those,  in 
order  to  check  that  repining  and  unthankful  spirit,  to  which 
man  is  always  too  prone. 

4  Some  degree  of  importance  must  be  allowed  to  the  com- 
forts oi  health,  to  the  innocent  gratifications  of  sense,  and  to 
the  entertainment  afforded  us  by  all  the  beautiful  scenes  of 
nature;  some  to  the  pursuits  and  hannless  amusements  of 
social  life;  and  more  to  the  internal  enjoyments  of  tliought 
and  reflection,  and  to  the  pleasures  of  affectionate  intercourse 
with  those  whom  we  love.  These  comforts  are  often  held  m 
too  low  estimation,  merely  because  they  are  ordinary  and 
common ;  altliough  that  is  the  circumstance  which  ought, 
in  reason,  to  enhance  their  value.  They  lie  open,  in  some 
degree,  to  all ;  extend  through  every  rank  of  life ;  and  fill  up 
ag-reeably  many  of  those  spaces  in  ou  r  present  existence,  which 
are  not  occupied  with  higher  objects,  or  with  serious  cares. 

5  From  this  representation,  it  appears  that,  notwithstand- 
ing the  vanity  of  the  world,  a  considerable  degree  of  comfort 

~is  attainable  in  the  present  state.     Let  the  recollection  of  this 

serve  to  reconcile  us  to  our  condition,  and  to  repress   the 

arrogance   of  complaints  and  murmurs. — What   art  thou, 

O  son  of  man !  who,  having  sprung  but  yesterday  out   of 

O 


158  The  English  Render.  Parti. 

the  dust,  darest  to  lift  up  thy  voice  against  thy  Maker,  and 
to  an-aign  his  providence,  because  all  things  are  not  ordered 
according  to  thy  wish  ? 

6  What  title  hast  thou  to  find  fault  with  the  order  of  the 
universe,  whose  lot  is  so  much  beyond  what  thy  virtue  or 
merit  gave  thee  ground  to  claim  !  Is  it  nothing  to  thee  to 
have  been  introduced  into  this  magnificent  world;  to  have 
been  admitted  as  a  spectator  of  the  Divine  wisdom  and 
works ;  and  to  have  had  access  to  all  the  comforts  which 
nature,  with  a  bountiful  hand, has  poured  fortrf  around  thee? 
Are  all  the  hours  forgotten  which  thou  hast  passed  in  ease, 
in  complacency,  or  joy? 

7  Is  it  a  small  favour  in  thy  eyes,  that  the  hand  of  Divine 
Mercy  has  been  stretched  forth  to  aid  thee;  and,  if  thou  re 
ject  not  its  proffered  assistance,  is  ready  to  conduct  thee  to  a 
happier  state  of  existence  ?  When  thou  comparest  thy  con- 
dition with  thy  desert,  blush  and  be  ashamed  of  thy  com- 
plaints. Be  silent,begrateful,and  adore.  Receive  with  thank- 
fulness the  blessings  which  are  allowed  thee.  Kevere  that 
government  which  at  present  refuses  thee  more.  Best  in  this 
conclusion,  that  though  there  are  evils  in  the  world,  its  Crea- 
tor is  wise,  and  good,  and  has  been  bountiful  to  thee,   blair. 

SECTION  XX. 
Scale  of  beings. 
THOUGH  there  is  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  m  contempla- 
ting the  material  world ;  by  which  1  mean,  that  system  of 
bodies,  into  which  nature  has  so  curiously  wrought  the  mass 
of  dead  matter,  with  the  several  relations  that  those  bodies 
bear  to  one  another;  there  is  still,  methinks,  something  more 
wonderful  and  surprising,  in  contemplations  on  the  world  of 
life;  by  which  I  intend,  all  those  animals  with  which  every 
part  of  the  universe  is  furnished.  The  material  world  is  on'y 
the  shell  of  the  universe  :  the  world  of  life  are  its  inhabitants. 

2  If  wi  consider  those  parts  of  the  material  world,  which 
lie  the  nearest  to  us,  and  are  therefore  subject  to  our  obser- 
vation, and  inquiries,  it  is  amazing  to  consider  the  infinity  of 
animals  with  which  they  are  stocked.  Every  part  of  matter 
is  peopled  ;  every  green  leaf  swarms  with  inhabitants.  There 
is  scarcely  a  single  humour  in  the  body  of  a  man.  or  of  any 
other  animal  in  which  our  glasses  do  nol  discover  myriads 
of  living  creatures.  We  find,  even  in  the  most  solid  bodies, 
as  in  marble  itself,  innumerable  cells  and  cavities,  which  are 
crowded  with  imperceptible  inhabitants,  too  iittle  for  tlie 
naked  eye  to  discover. 

3  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  look  into  the  more  bulkv  parts 
of  nature,  we  see  the  seas,  lakes,  and  rivers,  teeming  mlh 


Chap.  9  Promiscuoiu  Pieces.  159 

numberless  kinds  of  living  creatures.  We  find  every  moun- 
tain and  marsh,  wilderness  and  wood,  plentifully  stocked 
with  birds  and  beasts  ;  and  every  part  of  matter  affordmg' 
proper  necessaries  and  conveniences,  for  the  livelihood  of 
the  multitudes  which  inhabit  it. 

4  The  author  of"  the  Plurality  of  Worlds,"  draws  a  very 
good  aro;ument  from  this  consideration,  for  the  peopling  of 
every  planet  ;  as  indeed  it  seems  very  probable,  from  the 
analogy  of  reason,  that  if  no  part  of  matter,  with  which  we 
are  acquainted,  lies  waste  and  useless,  those  great  bodies, 
which  are  at  such  a  distance  from  us,  are  not  desert  and  un- 
peopled ;  but  rather,  that  they  are  furnished  with  beings 
adapted  to  their  respective  situations. 

5  Existence  is  a  blessing  to  those  beings  only  which  are 
endowed  with  perception  ;  and  is  in  a  manner  thrown  away 
upon  dead  matter,  any  farther  than  as  it  is  subservient  to  be- 
ings which  are  conscious  of  their  existence.  Accordingly 
we  find,  from  the  bodies  which  lie  under  our  observation,  that 
matter  is  only  made  as  the  basis  and  support  of  animals;  and 
that  there  is  no  more  of  the  one  than  what  is  necessary  for 
the  existence  of  the  other. 

6  Infinite  Goodness  is  of  so  communicative  a  nature,  that  it 
seems  to  delight  in  conferring  existence  upon  every  degree 
of  perceptive  being.  As  this  is  a  speculation,  which  I  have 
often  pursued  with  great  pleasure  to  myself,  I  shall  enlarge 
farther  upon  it,  by  considering  that  part  of  the  scale  of  be- 
ings, which  comes  within  our  knowledge. 

7  There  are  some  living  creatures,  which  are  raised  but 
just  above  dead  matter.  To  mention  only  that  species  of 
shell-fish,  which  is  formed  in  the  fashion  of  a  cone ;  that  grows 
to  the  surface  of  several  rocks  ;  and  immediately  dies  on  be- 
ing severed  from  the  place  where  it  grew.  There  are  ma- 
ny other  creatures  but  one  remove  from  tliese,  which  have 
no  other  sense  than  that  of  feeling  and  taste.  Others  have 
still  an  additional  one  of  hearing ;  others  of  smell;  and  others 
of  sight. 

8  It  is  wonderful  to  observe,  by  what  a  gradual  progress 
the  world  of  life  advances,  through  a  prodigious  variety  of 
species,  before  a  creature  is  formed,  that  is  complete  in  all  its 
senses :  and  even  among  these,  there  is  such  a  different  degree 
of  perfection,  in  the  sense  which  one  animal  enjoys  beyond 
what  appears  in  another,  that  though  the  sense  in  different 
animals  is  distinguished  by  the  same  common  denomination, 
it  seems  almost  of  a  ditTerent  nature. 

9  If,  after  this,  we  look  into  the  several  inward  perfections 
of  cunning  and  sagacity,  or  what  we  generally  call  instinct, 


160  The  English  Reader.  Part  1 

we  find  them  rising,  after  the  same  manner,  imperceptibly 
one  above  another;  and  receivjug  additional  improvements, 
according  to  the  species  in  whicVi  they  are  implanted.  This 
progress  in  nature  is  so  very  gradual,  that  the  most  perfect 
of  an  inferiour  species,  comes  very  near  to  the  most  imper- 
fect of  that  which  is  immediately  above  it. 

10  The  exuberant  and  overflowing  goodness  of  the  Su- 
preme Being,  whose  mercy  extends  to  all  his  works,  is  plain- 
ly seen,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  in  his  having  made  so  very 
little  matter,  at  least  what  falls  within  our  knowledge,  that 
does  not  swarm  with  life.  Nor  is  his  goodness  less  seen  in 
the  diversity,  than  in  the  multitude  of  living  creatures.  Had 
he  made  but  one  species  of  animals,  none  of  the  rest  would 
have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  existence:  he  has,  therefore, 
specified,  in  his  creation,  every  degree  of  life,  eveiy  capaci- 
ty of  being. 

11  The  whole  chasm  of  nature,  from  a  plant  to  a  man,  is 
filled  up  with  divers  kinds  of  creatures,  rising  one  after  an- 
other, by  an  ascent  so  gentle  and  easy,  that  the  little  transi- 
tions and  deviations  from  one  species  to  another,  are  almost 
insensible.  This  intermediate  space  is  so  well  husbanded 
and  managed,  that  tliere  is  scarcely  a  degree  of  perception, 
which  does  not  appear  in  ^ome  one  part  of  the  world  of  life. 
Is  the  goodness,  or  the  wisdom  of  the  Divine  Being,  more 
manifested  in  this  his  proceeding  ? 

12  There  is  a  consequence,  besides  those  I  have  already 
mentioned,  which  seems  very  naturally  deducible  from  the 
foregoing  considerations.  If  the  scale  of  being  rises  by  so 
regular  a  progress,  so  high  as  man,  we  may,  by  parity  of 
reason,  suppose,  that  it  still  proceeds  gradually  through 
those  beings  which  are  of  a  Superiour  nature  to  him  ;  since 
there  is  infinitely  greater  splice  and  room  for  different  degrees 
of  perfection,  between  the  Supreme  Being  and  man,  than  be- 
tween man  and  the  most  despicable  insect. 

13  In  this  great  system  of  being,  there  is  no  creature  so 
wonderful  in  its  nature,  and  which  so  much  deserves  our  par- 
ticular attention,  as  man  ;  who  fills  up  ttie  middle  space  be- 
tween the  animal  and  intellectual  nature,  the  visible  and  the 
invisible  world  ;  and  who  is  that  link  in  the  chain  of  be- 
ing, which  forms  the  connexion  between  both.  So  that  he 
who,  in  one  respect,  is  associated  with  angels  and  archangels, 
and  maj'  look  upon  a  being  of  infinite  perfection  as  his  father, 
and  the  highest  order  of  spirits  as  his  brethren,  may,  in  an- 
other respect,  say  to  "corruption,  thou  art  my  father, and  to 
the  worm,  thou  art  my  mother  and  my  sister."        addison. 


Chap.  9.  PromistMOus  1- leces.  161 

SECTION  XXI. 

Trust  in  the  care  of  Providence  recommetided. 

MAN,  considered  in  himself,  is  a  very  helpless,  and  a  very 
wretched  beinj.  He  is  subject  every  moment  to  the  great- 
est calamities  and  misfortunes.  He  is  beset  with  dangers 
on  all  sides  ;  and  may  become  unhappy  by  numberless  ca- 
sualties, which  he  could  not  foresee,  nor  have  prevented  had 
he  foreseen  them. 

2  It  is  our  comfort,  while  we  are  obnoxiousto  so  many  ac- 
cidents, that  we  are  under  the  care  of  one  who  directs  con- 
tingencies, and  has  in  his  hands  the  management  of  eve- 
ry thing  that  is  capable  of  annoying  or  oflending  us  ;  who 
knows  the  assistance  we  stand  in  need  of,  and  is  always 
readv  to  bestow  it  on  those  who  ask  it  of  him. 

3  'The  natural  homage,  which  such  a  creature  owes  to  so 
infinitely  wise  and  good  a  Being,  is  a  firm  reliance  on  him 
for  the  blessings  and  conveniences  of  life  ;  and  an  habitual 
trust  in  him,  for  deliverance  out  of  all  such  dangers  and  diffi- 
culties as  may  befal  us. 

4  The  man  who  always  lives  in  this  disposition  of  mind, 
has  not  the  same  dark  and  melancholy  views  of  human  na- 
ture, as  he  who  considers  himself^p-bstractedly  from  this  re- 
lation to  the  Supreme  Being.  At  the  same  time  that  he  re- 
flects upon  his  own  weakness  and  imperfection,  he  comforts 
himself  with  the  contemplation  of  those  divine  attributes, 
which  are  emplo)'ed  for  his  safety,  and  his  welfare.  He  finds 
his  want  of  foresight  made  up,  by  the  omniscience  of  him 
who  is  his  support.  He  i.=,not  sensible  of  his  own  want  of 
strength,  when  he  knows  that  his  helper  is  almighty. 

5  In  short,  the  person  who  has  a  firm  trust  in  the  Supreme 
Being,  is  powerful  in  his  power,  wise  by  his  wisdom,  happy 
by  his  happiness.  He  reaps  the  benefit  of  every  divine  attri- 
bute ;  and  loses  his  own  insufficiency  in  the  fulness  of  infinite 
perfection.  To  make  our  lives  more  easy  to  us,  we  are 
commanded  to  put  our  trust  in  him,  who  is  thus  able  to  re- 
lieve and  succour  us  ;  the  Divine  Goodness  having  made 
such  a  reliance  a  duty,  notwithstanding  we  should  have  been 
miserable,  had  it  been  forbidden  us. 

6  Among  several  motives,  which  might  be  made  use  of 
to  recommend  this  duty  to  us,  I  shall  only  take  notice  of 
those  that  follow.  The  first  and  strongest  is,  that  we  are 
promised,  he  will  not  fail  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him. 
But  without  considering  the  supernatural  olessing,  which  ac- 
companies this  duty,  we  may  observe,  that  it  has  a  natu- 
ral tendency  to  its  own  reward ;   or  in  other  words,  tliat  this 


162  The  English  Reader.  Parti. 

firm  trust  and  confidence  in  the  great  Disposer  of  all  things, 
contributes  verj-  much  to  the  getting  clear  of  any  afllction, 
or  to  the  bearing  of  it  manfully. 

7  A  person  who  believes  he  has  his  succour  at  hand,  and 
that  he  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  often  exerts  himself 
beyond  his  abilities  ;  and  does  wonders,  that  are  not  to  be 
matched  by  one  who  is  not  animated  with  such  a  confidence 
of  success.  Trust  in  the  assistance  of  an  Almighty  Being, 
naturally  produces  patience,  hope,  cheerfulness,  and  all  other 
dispositions  of  mind,  which  alleviate  those  calamities  that  we 
are  not  able  to  remove. 

8  The  practice  of  this  virtue  administers  great  comfort 
to  the  mind  of  man,  in  times  of  poverty  and  affliction  ;  but 
most  of  all,  in  the  hour  of  death.  When  the  soul  is  hovering, 
in  the  last  moments  of  its  separation ;  when  it  is  just  entering 
on  another  state  of  existence,  to  converse  with  scenes,  and 
objects,  and  companions,  that  are  altogether  new ;  what  can 
support  her  under  such  tremblings  of  thought,  such  fear, 
such  anxiety,  such  apprehensions,  but  the  casting  of  all  her 
cares  upon  him,  who  first  gave  her  being ;  who  has  conduct- 
ed her  through  one  stage  of  it ;  and  who  will  be  always  pre- 
sent, to  guide  and  comfort  her  in  her  progress  through  eter- 
nity' .  ADDISON. 

SECTION  XXII. 

Piety  and  gratitude  enliven  prosperity, 
PIETY,  and  gratitude  to  God,  contribute,  in  a  high  de- 
gree, to  enliven  prosperity.  Gratitude  is  a  pleasing  emotion. 
The  sense  of  beuig  distinguished  by  the  kindness  of  another, 
gladdens  the  heart,  warms  it  with  reciprocal  aflection,  and 
gives  to  any  possesion  which  is  agreeable  in  itself,  a  double 
relish,  from  its  being  the  gift  of  a  friend.  Favours  confer- 
red by  men,  I  acknowledge,  may  prove  burdensome.  For 
human  virtue  is  n'-ver  perfect ;  and  sometimes  unreasonable 
expectations  on  the  one  side,  sometimes  a  mortifying  sense 
of  dependence  on  the  other,  corrode  in  secret  the  pleasures 
of  benefits,  and  convert  the  obligations  of  friendship  into 
grounds  of  jealousy. 

2  But  nothing  of  this  kind  can  affect  the  intercourse  of 
gratitude  with  Heaven.  Its  favours  are  wholly  disinterest- 
ed; and  with  a  gratitude  the  most  cordial  and  unsuspicious, 
a  good  man  looks  up  to  that  Almighty  Benefactor,  who  aims 
at  no  end  but  the  happiness  of  those  whom  he  blesses,  and  who 
desires  no  return  from  them,  but  a  devout  and  thankful  heart. 
While  others  can  t:  ace  'heir  prosperity  to  no  higher  source 
than   a  concurrence  of  worldly  causes  j    and,    often,   of 


Chap.  9  Promisciuyi':  Pieces.  163 

mean  or  trifling  incidents,  which  occasionally  favoured  their 
designs;  with  what  superiour  satisfaction  does  the  servant  of 
God  remark  the  hand  of  that  gracious  Power  which  hath 
raised  him  up ;  which  hath  happily  conducted  him  through 
the  various  steps  of  life,  and  crowned  him  with  the  most  fa- 
vourahle  distinction  beyond  his  equals? 

3  Let  us  fvirther  consider,  that  not  only  gratitude  for  the 
past,  but  a  cheering  sense  of  divine  favour  at  the  present, 
enters  mto  the  pious  emotion.  They  are  only  the  virtuous, 
who  in  their  prosperous  days  hear  this  voice  addressed  to 
them,  "Go  thy  way,  eat  thy  bread  with  joy,  and  drink  thy 
wine  with  a  cheerful  heart ;  for  God  now  accepteth  thy 
works."  He  who  is  the  author  of  their  prosperity,  gives  them 
a  title  to  enjoy,  with  complacency,  his  own  gift. 

4  While  bad  men  snatch  the  pleasures  of  the  world  as  by 
stealth,  without  countenance  from  the  great  Proprietor  of 
the  world,  the  righteous  sit  openly  down  to  the  feast  of  life, 
under  the  smile  of  approving  heaven.  N6  guilty  fears  damp 
their  joys.  The  blessing  of  God  rests  upon  all  that  they 
possess ;  his  protection  surrounds  them ;  and  hence,  "  in  the 
habitations  of  the  righteouS;  is  found  the  voice  of  rejoicing 
And  salvation."  Alusti'e  unknown  to  others,  invests,  in  their 
sight,  the  whole  face  of  nature. 

5  Their  piety  reflects  a  sunshine  from  heaven  upon  the 
prosperity  of  the  world;  unites  in  one  point  of  view,  the  smi- 
ling aspect,  both  of  the  powers  above,  and  of  the  objects  be- 
low. Not  only  have  they  as  full  a  relish  as  others,  for  the 
innocent  pleasures  of  life,  but,  moreover,  in  these  they  hold 
communion  with  their  divine  Benefactor.  In  all  that  is  good 
or  fair,  they  trace  his  hand.  From  the  beauties  of  nature, 
from  the  improvements  of  art,  from  the  enjoyments  of  social 
life,  they  raise  their  affection  to  the  source  of  all  the  happiness 
which  surrounds  them ;  and  thus  widen  the  sphere  of  their 
pleasures,  by  adding  inte]lectual,and  spiritual,  to  earthly  joys. 

6  For  illustration  of  what  I  have  said  on  this  headj  remark 
that  cheerful  enjoyment  of  a  prosperous  state,  whicn  king 
David  had  when  he  wrote  the  twenty-third  psalm  ;  and  com- 
pare the  highest  pleasures  of  the  riotous  sinner,  with  the 
happy  and  satisfied  spirit  which  breathse  throughout  that 
psalm. — In  the  midst  of  the  splendour  of  roj'alty,  with  what 
amiable  simplicity  of  gratitude  does  he  look  up  to  the  Lord 
as  "  his  Shepherd ;"  happier  in  ascribmg  all  his  success  to 
Divine  favour,  than  to  the  policy  of  his  councils,  or  to  the 
force  of  his  arms ! 

7  How  many  instances  of  divine  goodness  arose  before 
him  in  pleasing  remembrance,  when  with  such  relish,  he 


1 64  The  English  Reader.  Part.  1 . 

speaks  of  the  '  green  pastures  and  still  waters,  beside  wViich 
God  had  led  him  ;  of  his  cup  which  he  had  made  to  overflow ; 
and  of  the  table  wiiich  he  bad  prepared  for  him  in  the  pre- 
Bence  of  his  enemies !"  -With  what  perfect  tranquillity  does 
he  look  forv7ard  to  the  time  of  his  passing-  through  "  the  val- 
ley of  the  shadow  of  death;"  unappalled  by  that  spectre, 
whose  most  distant  appearance  blasts  the  prosperity  of  sin- 
ners !  He  fears  no  evil,  as  long^  as  "  the  rod  and  the  staff"  of 
his  Divine  Shepherd  are  with  him  ;  and,  through  all  the  un- 
known periods  of  this  and  of  future  existence,  commits  him- 
self to  his  guidance  with  secure  and  triumphant  hope : 
"  Surely  goodness  and  mercy  will  follow  me  all  the  days  of 
my  life ;  and  I  shall  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever." 
8  What  a  purified,  sentimental  enjoyment  of  prosperity  is 
here  exhibited!  How  different  from  that  gross  relish  ot 
worldly  pleasures,  which  belongs  to  those  who  behold  only 
the  terrestrial  side  of  things  ;  who  raise  their  views  to  no 
higher  objects  than  the  succession  of  human  contingencies, 
and  the  weak  efforts  of  human  ability :  who  have  no  protec- 
tor or  patron  in  the  heavens,  to  enliven  their  prosperity,  or 
to  warm  their  hearts  with  gratitude  and  trust!  bi-air. 

SECTION  xxni. 

Virtue,  when  deeply  rooted^  is  not  subject  to  the  influence  (^ 
fortune. 
THE  city  of  Sidon  having  surrendered  to  Alexander,  h« 
ordered  Hephestion  to  bestow  the  crown  on  him  whom  tht 
Sidonians  should  think  most  worthy  of  that  honour.  He- 
phestion being  at  that  time  resident  with  two  young  men  ot 
distinction,  offered  them  the  kingdom ;  but  they  refused  it, 
telUng  him  that  it  was  contrary  to  the  laws  of  their  country, 
to  admit  any  one  to  that  honour,  who  was  not  of  the  royal 
family. 

2  He  then,  having  expressed  his  admiration  of  their  disin- 
terested spirit,  desired  tliem  to  name  one  of  the  royal  race, 
who  might  remember  that  he  had  received  the  crown  through 
their  hands.  Overlooking  many,  who  would  have  been  am- 
bitious of  this  high  honour,  they  made  choice  of  Abdolonv- 
mus,  whose  singular  merit  had  rendered  him  conspicuous, 
even  in  the  vale  of  obscurity.  Though  remotely  related  to 
the  royal  family,  a  series  of  misfortunes  had  reduced  him  to 
the  necessity  of  cultivating  a  garden,  for  a  small  stipend,  in 
the  suburbs  of  the  city. 

3  \Vhile  Abdolonymus  was  busily  employed  in  weediiio* 
his  garden,  the  two  friends  of  Hephestion,  bearing  in  their 
hands  the  ensigns  of  royality,  approached  him,  and  saluted  him 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  165 

kiug.  They  informed  him  that  Alexander  had  appointed 
him  to  that  office ;  and  required  him  immediately  to  exchange 
his  rustic  ^arb,  and  utensils  of  husbandry,  for  the  regal  robe 
and  sceptre.  At  the  same  time,  they  admonished  him,  when 
he  should  be  seated  on  the  throne,  and  have  a  nation  in  his 
power,  not  to  forget  the  humble  condition  from  which  he 
had  been  raised. 

4  All  this,  at  the  first,  appeared  to  Abdolonymus  as  an  il- 
lusion of  the  fancy,  or  an  insult  offered  to  his  poverty.  He 
requested  them  not  to  trouble  him  farther  with  their  imper- 
tinent jests ;  and  to  find  some  other  way  of  amusing  them- 
selves, which  might  leave  him  in  the  peaceable  enjoyment 
of  his  obscure  habitation. — At  length,  however,  tljey  con- 
vinced him,  that  they  were  serious  in  their  proposal;  and 
prevailed  upon  him  to  accept  the  regal  office,  and  accom- 
pany them  to  the  palace. 

5  No  sooner  was  he  in  possession  of  the  government,  than 
pride  and  envy  created  him  enemies ;  who  whispered  their 
murmurs  in  every  place,  till  at  last  they  reached  the  ear  of 
Alexandei'.  He  commanded  the  new-elected  prince  to  be 
sent  for ;  and  inquired  of  him,  with  what  temper  of  mind  he 
Sad  borne  his  poverty.  "  Would  to  Heaven,"  replied  Ab- 
dolonymus, "  that  I  may  be  able  to  bear  my  crown  with 
equal  moderation :  for  when  I  possessed  little,  I  wanted  no- 
thing :  These  hands  supplied  me  with  whatever  I  desired." 
From  this  answer,  Alexander  formed  so  high  an  idea  of  his 
wisdom,  that  he  confirmed  the  choice  which  had  been  made; 
and  annexed  a  neighbouring  province  to  the  government  of 
Sidon.  QuiNTUS  curtius. 

SECTION  XXIV. 
The  Speech  of  Fabricius,  a  Roman  J]mbassador,  to  king 

Pyrrhus,   who  attempted  to  bribe  him.  to  his  interests,  by 

the  offer  of  a  great  sum  of  money. 

WITH  regard  to  my  poverty,  the  king  has,  indeed,  been 
justly  informed.  My  whole  estate  consists  in  a  house  of 
but  mean  appearance,  and  a  little  spot  of  ground  ;  from 
which,  by  my  own  labour,  I  draw  my  support.  But  if,  by  any 
means,  thou  hast  been  persuaded  to  think  that  this  poverty 
renders  me  of  less  consequence  in  my  own  country,  or  in 
any  degree  unhappy,  thou  art  greatly  deceived. 

2  I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  fortune  :  she  supplies  me 
with  all  that  nature  requires  ;  and  if  I  am  without  superflu- 
ities, I  am  also  free  from  the  desire  of  them.  With  these,  I 
confess  I  should  be  more  ^ble  to  succour  the  necessitous,  the 
only  advantage  for  which  the  ivealthy  are  to  be  envied  ;  but 
small  as  my  possessions  are,  I  can  still  contribute  something 


166  The  English  Reader.  Part  1. 

to  the  support  of  the  state,  and  the  assistance  of  my  friends. 

3  With  respect  to  honours,  my  country  places  me,  poor 
as  I  am,  upon  a  level  with  the  richest :  for  Rome  knows  no 
qualifications  for  g-rcat  emplo)'ments,  but  virtue  and  ability. 
She  appoints  me  to  officiate  in  the  most  aug-ust  ceremonies 
of  religion  ;  she  intrusts  me  with  the  command  of  her  armies  ; 
she  confides  to  my  care  the  most  important  neg'ociations. 
My  poverty  does  not  lessen  the  weight  and  influence  of  my 
counsels  in  the  senate. 

4  The  Roman  people  honour  me  for  that  ven'  poverty, 
which  king  Pyrrhus  considers  as  a  disgrace.  They  know 
the  many  opportunities  I  have  had  to  enrich  myself,  without 
censure  ;  they  are  convinced  of  my  disinterested  zeal  for 
their  prosperity:  and  if  I  have  any  thing-  to  complain  of,  in 
the  return  they  make  me,  it  is  only  the  excess  of  their  ap- 
plause. What  value,  then,  can  I  put  upon  thy  gold  and  sil- 
ver? What  king  can  add  any  thing-  to  my  fortune  ?  Always 
attentive  to  discharge  the  duties  incumbent  upon  me,  I  have 
a  mind  free  from  self-reproach  ;  and  I  have  an  honest  fame. 

SECTION  XXV. 
Character  of  J  A.mES  I.  king  of  England. 
NO  prince,  so  little  enterprising  and  so  inoffensive,  was 
ever  so  much  exposed  to  the  opposite  extremes  of  calumn* 
and  flattery,  of  satire  and  panegyric.  And  the  factions  which 
began  in  his  time,  being  still  continued,  have  made  his  cha- 
racter be  as  much  disputed  to  this  day,  as  is  commonly  that 
of  princes  who  are  our  contemporaries. 

2  Many  virtues,  however,  it  must  be  owned,  he  was  pos- 
sessed of;  but  not  one  of  them  pure,  or  free  from  the  conta- 
gion of  the  neighbouring  vices.  His  generosity  bordered  on 
profusion,  his  learning  on  pedantry,  his  pacific  disposition  on 
pusillanimity,  his  wisdom  on  cunning,  his  friendship  on  light 
fancy  and  boyish  fondness. 

3  While  he  imagined  that  he  was  only  maintaining  his 
own  authority,  he  may  perhaps  be  suspected  in  some  of  his 
actions,  and  still  more  of  his  pretensions,  to  have  encroached 
on  the  liberties  of  his  people.  While  he  endeavoured,  by  an 
exact  neutrality,  to  acquire  the  good-will  of  all  his  neighbours, 
he  was  able  to  preserve  fully  the  esteem  and  regard  of  none. 
His  capacity  was  considerable,  but  fitter  to  discourse  on 
general  maxims,  than  to  conduct  anj-  intricate  business. 

4  His  intentions  were  just,  but  more  adapted  to  the  con- 
duct of  private  life,  than  to  the  gfovernment  of  kingdoms. 
Awkward  in  his  person,  and  ungainly  in  his  manners,  he  was 
ill  qualified  to  command  respect :  partial  and  undiscerning  in 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces  1 6"^ 

his  affections,  he  was  little  fitted  to  acquire  general  love.  Of 
a  feeble  temper,  more  than  of  a  frugal  judgment;  exposed 
to  our  ridicule  from  his  vanity,  but  exempt  from  our  hatred 
by  his  freedom  from  pride  and  arrogance. 

5  And,  upon  the  vchole,  it  may  be  pronounced  of  his  cha- 
racter, that  all  his  qualities  were  sullied  with  weakness,  and 
embellished  by  humanity.  Political  courage  he  was  certain- 
ly devoid  of;  and  from  thence  chiefly  is  derived  the  strong 
prejudice,  which  prevails  against  his  personal  bravei7  :  an 
inference,  however,  which  must  be  owned,  from  general 
experience,  to  be  extremely  fallacious.  hume. 

SECTION  XXVI. 
Charles  V.  emperor  of  Germany,  resigns  his  dominions, 
and  retires  from  the  world. 
THIS  great  emperor,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  and 
in  possession  of  all  the  honours  which  can  flatter  the  heart 
of  man,  took  the  extraordinary  resolution,  to  resign  his  king- 
ioms  ;  and  to  withdraw  entirely  from  any  concern  in  busi- 
ness or  the  affairs  of  this  wond,  in  order  that  he  might  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  days  in  retirement  and  solitude. 

2  Though  it  requires  neither  deep  reflection,  nor  extraor- 
dinary discernment,  to  discover  that  the  state  of  royalty  is 
not  exempt  from  cares  and  disappointments  ;  though  most 
of  those  wl)o  are  exalted  to  a  throne,  find  solicitude,  and  sa- 
tiety, and  disgust,  to  be  their  perpetual  attendants,  in  that 
envied  pre-eminence  ;  yet,  to  descend  voluntarily  from  the 
supreme  to  a  subordmate  station,  and  to  relinquish  the  pos- 
session of  power  in  order  to  atain  the  enjoyment  of  happiness, 
seems  to  be  an  effort  too  great  for  the  human  mind. 

3  Several  instances,  indeed,  occur  inhistory,  of  monarchs 
ivho  have  quitted  a  throne,  and  have  ended  their  days  in  re- 
tirement. But  they  were  either  weak  princes,  who  took 
this  resolution  rashly,  and  repented  of  it  as  soon  as  it  was 
taken  ;  or  unfortunate  princes,  from  whose  hands  some 
strong  rival  had  wrested  their  sceptre,  and  compelled  them 
to  descend  with  reluctance  into  a  private  station. 

4  Dioclesian  is,  perhaps,  the  only  prince  capable  of  hold- 
ing the  reigns  of  government,  who  ever  resigned  them  from 
deliberate  choice  ;  and  who  continued,  during  manj'  years, 
to  enjoy  the  tranquillity  of  retirement,  without  fetching  one 
penitent  sigh,  or  casting  back  one  look  of  desire,  towards 
the  power  or  dignity  which  he  had  abandoned. 

5  No  wonder,  tlien,  that  Charle's  resignation  should  fill 
all  Europe  with  astonishment;  and  give  rise,  both  among  his 
conternporaries.and  among  the  historians  of  that  period,  to 


168  The  Engluh  Reaaer.  Part  1 

various  conjectures  concerning  the  motives  which  determin- 
ed a  prince,  whose  ruling  passion  had  been  uniformly  the 
love  of  power,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  when  objects  of  ambi- 
tion operate  with  full  force  on  the  mind,  and  are  pursued 
with  the  greatest  ardour,  to  take  a  resolution  so  singular 
and  unexpected. 

6  The  emperor,  in  pursuance  of  his  determination,  having 
assembled  the  states  of  the  Low  Countries  at  Brussels,  seat- 
ed himself,  for  the  last  time,  in  the  chair  of  state :  on  one  side 
of  which  was  placed  his  son,  and  on  the  other,  his  sister  the 
queen  of  Hungary,  regent  of  the  Netherlands,  with  a  splen- 
did retinue  of  the  grandees  of  Spain  and  Princes  of  the  em- 
pire standing  behind  him. 

7  The  president  of  the  council  of  Flanders,  by  his  com- 
mand, explained,  in  a  kv?  words,  his  intention  in  calling  this 
extraordinary  meeting  of  the  states.  He  then  read  the  in- 
strument of  resignation,  by  which  Charles  surrendered  to 
his  son  Philip  aU  his  territories,  jurisdiction,  and  authority 
m  the  Low  Countries  ;  absolving  his  subjects  there  from  their 
oath  of  allegiance  to  him,  which  he  required  them  Lo  trans- 
fer to  Philip  his  lawful  heir  ;  and  to  serve  him  with  the  same 
lojalty  and  zeal  that  they  had  manifested,  during  so  long  a 
course  of  years,  in  support  of  his  government. 

8  Charles  then  rose  from  his  seat,  and  leaning  on  the 
shoulder  of  tlie  prince  of  Orange,  because  he  was  unable  to 
stand  without  support,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  audience ; 
and,  from  a  paper  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  in  order  to  as- 
sist his  memory,  he  recounted,  with  dignitj',  but  without  os- 
tentation, all  the  great  things  which  he  had  undertaken  and 
performed,  since  the  commencement  of  his  administration. 

9  He  observed,  that  from  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age, 
he  had  dedicated  all  his  thoughts  and  attention  to  public  ob- 
jects, reserving  no  portion  of  his  time  for  the  indulgence  of  his 
ease,  and  very  little  for  the  enjo3"ment  of  private  pleasure  ; 
that  eitlier  in  a  pacific  or  hostile  manner,  he  had  visited  Ger- 
many nine  times,  Spain  six  times,  France  four  times,  Italy 
seven  times,  the  Low  Countries  ten  times,  England  twice,  Af- 
rica as  often,  and  had  made  eleven  voynges  by  sea ;  that  while 
his  health  permitted  him  to  discharge  his  duty,  and  the  vigour 
of  his  constitution  was  equal,  in  any  degree,  to  the  arduoiis  of- 
fice of  governing  dominions  so  extensive,  he  hadnever  shun- 
ned labour,  nor  repined  under  fatigue  ;  that  now,  when  his 
health  was  broken,  and  his  vigour  exhausted  by  the  rage  of 
an  incurable  distemper,  his  growing  iufinnitie?  admonished 
Lim  to  retire;  nor  was  he  so  fond  of  reigning,  as  to  retain  the 
eceptre  in  an  impotent  hand,  which   was  no   longer  able  to 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  169 

protect  his  subjects,  or  to  render  them  happj ;  that  instead 
of  a  sovereign  worn  out  with  diseases,  and  scarcely  half  a 
live,  he  gave  them  one  in  the  prime  of  life,  accustomed  al- 
ready to  govern,  and  who  added  to  the  vigour  of  j'outh,  all 
the  attention  and  sagacity  of  maturer  years ;  that  if  during 
the  course  of  a  long  admmistration,  he  had  committed  anv 
material  errour  in  government,  or  if,  nnderthe  pressure  of  so 
many  and  great  affairs,  and  amidst  the  attention  which  he 
had  been  obliged  to  give  to  them,  he  had  either  neglected 
or  injured  any  of  his  subjects,  he  now  implored  their  forgive- 
ness ;  that,  for  his  part,  he  should  ever  retain  a  grateful  sense 
of  their  fidelity  and  attachment,  and  would  carry  the  remem- 
brance of  it  along  with  him  to  the  place  of  his  retreat,  as  his 
sweetest  consolation,  as  well  as  the  best  reward  for  all  his 
services;  and  in  hislast  prayers  to  Almighty  God,  would 
pour  forth  his  ardent  wishes  for  their  welfare. 

10  Then  turning  towards  Philip,  who  fell  on  his  knees  and 
kissed  his  father's  hand,"  If,"  says  he,  "  I  had  left  you,  by 
my  death,  this  rich  inheritance,  to  which  I  have  made  such 
large  additions,  some  regard  would  have  been  justly  due  to 
ray  memory  on  that  account ;  but  now,  when  1  voluniari]v 
/esign  to  you  what  I  might  have  still  retained,  I  may  well 
expect  the  warmest  expressions  of  thanks  on  your  part. 
With  these,  however,  I  dispense ;  and  shall  consider  your 
concern  for  the  we)  fare  of  your  subjects, and  your  love  of  them, 
as  the  best  and  most  acceptable  testimony  of  your  gratitude  to 
me.  It  is  in  your  power,  by  a  wise  and  virtuous  adminis- 
tration, to  justify  the  extraordinary  proof  which  I  give  this 
day  of  ray  paternal  affection,  and  to  demonstrate  that  you  are 
worthy  of  the  confidence  which  I  repose  in  you.  Preserve  an 
inviolable  regard  for  religion;  maintain  the  Catholic  faith  in 
its  purity ;  let  the  laws  of  your  country  be  sacred  in  your  eyes ; 
encroach  not  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  your  people;  and 
if  the  time  shall  ever  come,  when  you  shall  wish  to  enjoy  the 
tranquillitj'  of  private  life,  may  you  have  a  son  endowed  with 
such  qualities,  that  you  can  resign  your  sceptre  to  him,  with 
as  much  satisfaction  as  I  give  up  mine  to  you." 

11  As  soon  as  Charles  had  finished  this  long  address  to  his 
subjects,  and  to  their  new  sovereign,  he  sunk  into  the  chair, 
exhausted  and  ready  to  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  so  extraor- 
dinary an  effort.  During  his  discourse,  the  whole  audience 
melted  into  tears ;  some  from  admiration  of  his  magnanimity'; 
others  softened  by  the  expressions  of  tenderness  towards  his 
son,  and  of  love  to  his  people ;  and  all  w^re  affected  with 
the  deepest  sorrow,  at  losing  a  sovereign,  who  had  dis- 

P 


no  The  English  Reader.  Part  I. 

tin^ished  the  Netherlands,  his  native  country,  with  particu- 
lar marks  of  his  regard  and  attachment. 
SECTION  XXVII. 

The  same  subject  continued. 
A  FEW  weeks  after  the  resignation  of  the^ Netherlands, 
Charles,  in  an  assembly  no  less  splendid,  and  with  a  ceremo- 
nial equally  pompous,  resigned  to  his  son  the  crowns  of  Spain, 
with  all  the  territories  depending  on  them,  both  in  the  old 
and  in  the  new  world.  Of  all  these  vast  possessions,  he  re- 
served nothing  for  himself,  but  an  annual  pension  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns,  to  defray  the  charges  of  his  family,  and 
to  afford  him  asmallsum  for  acts  of  beneficence  and  charitj'. 

2  Nothing  now  remained  to  detain  him  from  that  retreat 
for  which  he  languished.  Every  thing  having  been  prepar- 
ed some  time  for  his  voyage,  he  set  out  for  Zuitburgh  in  Zea- 
land, where  the  fleet  had  orders  to  rendezvous.  In  his  way 
thither,  he  passed  through  Ghent :  and  after  stopping  there  a 
fejv  days,  to  indulge  that  tender  and  pleasing  melancholy, 
which  arises  in  tiie  mind  o''ever3^  man  in  the  decline  of  lite, 
on  visiting  the  place  of  his  nativity,  aud  viewing  the  scenes 
and  objects  familiar  to  him  in  hisearly  youth,  he  pursued  his 
journey,  accompanied  by  his  son  Philip,  his  daughter  the 
arch-dutchess,  his  sisters  the  dowager  queens  of  France 
and  Hungary,  Maximilian  his  son-in-law,  and  a  numerous 
retinue  of  the  Flemish  nobility.  Before  he  went  on  board,  he 
dismissed  them,  with  marks  of  his  attention  and  regard  ;  and 
taking  leave  of  Phihp  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father 
who  embraced  his  son  for  the  last  time  he  set  sail  under  con- 
voy of  a  large  fleet  of  Spanish,  Flemish,  and  English  ships. 

3  His  voyage  was  prosperous  and  agreeable  ;  and  he  ar- 
rived at  Laredo  in  Biscay,  on  the  eleventh  day  after  he  left 
Zealand.  As  soon  as  he  landed,  he  fell  prostrate  on  the 
ground;  and  considering  himself  now  as  dead  to  the  world, 
he  kissed  the  earth,  and  said,  "Naked  came  I  out  of  my 
mother's  womb,  and  naked  I  now  return  to  thee,  thou  com- 
mon mother  of  mankind."  From  Laredo  he  proceeded  to 
Valladolid.  There  he  took  a  last  and  tender  leave  of  his 
two  sisters;  whom  he  would  not  permit  to  accompany  him 
to  his  solitude,  though  they  entreated  it  with  tears  :  not  only 
that  they  might  have  the  consolation  of  contributing,by  their 
attendance  and  cai'e,  to  mitigate  or  lo  sooth  his  sufferings, 
but  that  they  might  reap  instruction  and  benefit,  by  joining 
with  him  in  those  pious  exercises,  to  which  he  had  conse- 
created  the  remainder  of  his  d;i.ys. 

4  From  Valladolid,  he  continued  his  journey  to  Plazencia 
m  Estrernadura.     He  had  passed  through  that  city  a  great 


Chap.  9.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  171 

many  years  before ;  and  having  been  struck  at  that  time 
with  the  delightful  situation  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Justus, 
belonging  to  the  order  of  St.  Jerome,  not  many  miles  distant 
from  that  place,  he  had  then  observed  to  some  of  his  atten 
dants,  that  this  wasa  spctto  which  Dioclesian  might  have  re- 
tired with  pleasure.  The  impression  had  remained  so  strong 
on  his  mind,  that  he  pitched  upon  it  as  the  place  of  his  retreat. 

5  It  was  seated  in  a  vale  of  no  great  extent,  watered  by  a 
small  brook,  and  surrounded  by  rising  grounds,  covered  with 
lofty  trees.  From  the  nature  of  the  soil,  as  well  as  the  tem- 
perature of  the  climate,  it  was  esteemed  the  most  healthful 
and  delicious  situation  in  Spain. 

6  Some  months  before  his  resignation,  he  had  sent  an  archi- 
tect thither,  to  add  anew  apartment  to  the  monastery,  for  his 
accommodation  ;  but  he  gave  strict  orders  that  the  style  of 
the  building  should  be  such  as  suited  his  present  station,  ra- 
ther than  his  former  dignity.  It  consisted  only  of  six  rooms, 
four  of  them  in  the  form  of  friar's  cells,  with  naked  wails  ; 
the  other  two,  each  twenty  feet  square,  were  hung  with 
brown  cloth,  and  furnished  in  the  most  simple  manner.  They 
were  all  on  a  level  with  tlie  ground ;  with  a  door  on  one 
side  into  a  garden,  of  which  Charles  himself  had  given  the 
plan,  and  had  filled  it  with  various  plants,  which  he  proposed 
to  cultivate  with  his  own  hands.  On  the  other  side,  they 
communicated  with  the  chapel  of  the  monastery,  in  which 
he  was  to  perform  his  devotions. 

7  Into  this  humble  retreat,  hardly  sufficient  for  the  com- 
fortable accommodation  of  a  private  gentleman,  did  Charles 
enter,  with  twelve  domestics  only.  He  buried  there,  in  sol- 
itudeand  silence,  his  grandeur,  his  ambition,  together  with 
all  those  vast  projects,  which,  during  half  a  century,  had 
alarmed  and  agitated  Europe  ;  filling  every  kingdom  in  it, 
by  turns, with  the  terrour  of  his  arms,  and  the  dread  of  being 
subjected  to  his  power. 

8  In  this  retirement,  Charles  formed  such  a  plan  of  life  for 
h-mself,  as  would  have  suited  the  condition  of  a  private  per- 
son of  a  moderate  fortune.  His  table  was  neat  but  plain;  his 
domestics  few ;  his  intercourse  with  them  familiar ;  all  the 
cumbersome  and  ceremonious  forms  of  attendance  on  his 
person  were  entirely  abolished,  as  destructive  of  that  social 
ease  and  tranquillity,  which  he  courted,  in  order  to  sooth  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  As  the  mildness  of  the  climtite,  togeth- 
er with  his  deliverance  from  the  burdens  and  cares  of  gov- 
ernment, procured  him,  at  first  a  considerable  remission 
from  the  acute  pain  with  which  he  had  been  long  torment- 
ed, he  enjoyed,  perhaps,  more  complete  satisfaction  in  this 


'72  rhe  English  Reader.  Part   2. 

humble  solitude,  than  all  his  grandeur  had  ever  yielded  him. 
9"  The  ambitious  thoughts  and  projects  which  ha'^.  so  long 
engrossed  and  disquieted  liim,  were  quite  efiaced  <join  his 
iniud.  Far  from  taking  any  part  in  the  political  transactions 
of  the  princes  of  Europe,  he  restrained  his  curiosity  even 
from  any  inquiry  concerning  them  ;  and  he  seemed  to  view 
the  busy  scene  which  he  had  abandoned^  with  all  the  con- 
tempt and  indifference  arising  from  his  thorough  experience 
of  its  vanity,  as  well  as  from  the  pleasing  reflection  of  hav- 
ing disentangled  himself  from  its  cares.        dr.  robertsow. 

PART  II. 

PIECES  IN  POETRY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SELECT  SENTENCES  AND  PARAGRAPHS. 


SECTION  I. 
SHORT  AND  EASY  SENTENCES. 

Education. 
'TIS  education  forms  the  common  mind: 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree's  inclin'd. 

Candour. 
\V  ith  pleasure  let  us  own  our  errours  past 
And  make  each  day  a  critic  on  the  last. 

Reflection. 
A  soul  without  reflection,  like  a  pile 
Without  inhabitant,  to  ruin    runs. 

Secret  virtue. 
The  private  path,  the  secret  acts  of  men, 
If  noble,  far  the  noblest  of  their  lives. 

Jfecessary  knowledge  easily  attained. 
Our  needful  knowledge,  like  our  needful  food, 
Unhedg'd,  lies  open  in  life's  common  field; 
And  bids  all  welcome  to  the  vital  feast. 
Disappointm,e7it. 
Disappointment  lurks  in  many  a  prize. 
As  bees  in  flow'rs,  and  stings  us  with  success. 

Virtuous  elevation. 
The  mind  that  would  be  happy,  must  be  great; 
Great  in  its  wishes  ;  great  in  its  surveys. 
Extended  views  a  narrow  mind  extend. 

j\OTE. — In  ihe  first  chapter,  the  Compiler  has  exhibited  a  considera- 
ble variety  of  poetical  construction,  for  the  young  reader's  preparatory 
exercises. 


■i 


Chap.  1  Select  Sentences,  SfC.  173 

J^atural  and  fanciful  life. 
Who  lives  to  nature,  rarely  can  be  poor; 
Who  lives  to  fancy,  never  can  be  rich. 

Charity. 
In  faith  and  hope  the  world  will  disagree ; 
But  all  mankind's  concern  is  charity. 
The  prize  of  Virtue. 
What  nothing'  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heart-felt  joy, 
Is  virtue's  prize. 

Sense  and  modesty  connected. 
Distrustful  sense  with  modest  caution  spealcs ; 
It  still  looks  home,  and  short  excursions  makes , 
But  rattling  nonsense  in  full  volleys  breaks. 

Moral  discipline  salutary. 
Heav'n  gives  us  friends  to  bless  the  present  scene, 
Resumes  them  to  prepare  us  for  the  next. 
All  evils  natural  are  moral  goods; 
All  discipline,  indulgence,  on  the  whole. 

Present  blessings  undervalued. 
Like  birds,  whose  beauties  languish,  half  conceal'd 
Till,  mounted  on  the  wing,  their  glossy  plumes 
Expanded,  shine  with  azure,  green,  and  gold. 
How  blessmgs  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight ' 

Hope. 
Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  befriends  us  here ; 
Passions  of  prouder  name  befriend  us  less. 
Joy  has  her  tears,  and  transport  has  her  death; 
Hope,  like  a  cordial,  innocent,  though  strong, 
Man's  heart,  at  once,  inspirits  and  serenes. 
Happiness  modest  and  tranquil, 

Never  man  was  truely  blest, 

But  it  compos'd  and  gave  him  such  a  cast, 
As  folly  might  mistake  for  want  of  joy : 
A  castualike  the  triumph  of  the  proud; 
A  modest  aspect,  and  a  smile  at  heart. 

True  greatness. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains, 
Or  failing;  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains, 
Like  good  Aurelius,  let  tiim  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

The  tear  of  sympathy. 
No  radiant  pearl,  which  crested  fortune  wears. 
No  gem,  that  twinkling  hangs  from  beauty's  ears, 
P2 


174  The  English  Reader  Part  2. 

Nor  the  bright  stars,  which  nigl.t's  blue  arch  adorn, 
Nor  risirifr  suns  that  gild  the  vernal  morn, 
Shine  with  such  lustre,  as  the  tear  that  breaks, 
For  others'  wo,  down  Virtue's  manly  cheeks. 
SECTION  II. 

VERSES  IN  WHICH  THE  LINES  ARE  OF   DIFFERFNT  L.ENGTS. 

Bhss  of  celestial  Origin, 
RESTLESS  mortals  toil  for  nought; 
Bliss  in  vain  from  earth  is  sought; 
Bliss,  a  native  of  the  sky. 
Never  wanders.     Mortals,  try; 
There  you  cannot  seek  in  vain ; 
For  to  seek  her,  is  to  gain. 

The  Passions. 
The  passions  are  a  num'rous  crowd, 
Imperious,  positive,  and  loud. 
'    Curb  these  licentious  sons  of  strife; 
Hence  chiefly  rise  the  storms  of  life: 
If  they  grow  mutinous,  and  rave, 
They  are  tliy  masters,  thou  their  slave. 

Trust  in  Providence  recommended 
'Tis  Providence  alone  secures, 
In  every  change,  both  mine  and  yours. 
Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
From  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape  : 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread. 
Found  oft'nest  in  what  least  we  dread ; 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow, 
But  in  the  sunshine,  strikes  the  blow. 

Epitaph. 
How  lov'd,  br-w  valu'd  once,  avails  thee  not; 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot : 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee ; 
'T'is  ail  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be. 

Fame. 
All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert; 
Plays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart. 
One  self-approving  hour,  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers.  and  of  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exil'd  feels, 
Than  C^sar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences^  SfC.  17S 

Virtue  the  guardian  of  youth. 
Down  the  smooth  stream  of  life  the  strippling'  darts, 
Gay  as  the  morn  ;  bright  g'lows  the  vernal  sky, 
Hope  swells  his  sails,  and  Passion  steers  his  course 
Safe  glides  his  little  bark  along  the  shore, 
Where  Virtue  takes  her  stand  :  but  if  too  far 
He  launches  forth  beyond  discretion's  mark, 
Sudden  the  tempest  scowls,  the  surges  roar, 
Blot  his  fair  day,  and  plunge  him  in  the  deep. 

Sunrise. 
But  yonder  comes  the  pow'rful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.     The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow, 
Illum'd  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.     Lo,  now,  apparent  all 
Aslant  the  dew-bright  earth,  and  colour'd  air. 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad. 
And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnish'd  plays 
On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  tow'rs,  and  wand'ring  streams 
High  gleaming  from  afar. 

Self -government. 
May  I  govern  my  passions  with  absolute  sway ; 
And  grow  wiser  and  better  as  life  wears  away. 

Shepherd. 
On  a  mountain,  stretch'd  beneath  a  hoary  willow, 
Lay  a  shepherd  swain,  and  view'd  the  rolling  billow 

SECTION  HI. 

VERSES  CONTAIMNG  EXCLAMATIONS,  INTERROGATIONS, 
AND  PARENTHESES. 

Competence. 
A  COMPETENCE  is  all  we  can  enjoy : 
Oh  I  be  content,  where  Heav'n  can  give  no  more ! 

Reflection  essential  to  happiness 
Much  joy  not  only  speaks  small  happiness, 
But  happiness  that  shortly  must  expire, 
Can  joy,  unbottom'din  reflection,  stand.' 
And,  in  a  tempest,  can  reflection  live  ? 

Friendship. 
Can  gold  gain  friendship?  Impudence  of  hope! 
As  well  mere  man  an  angel  might  beget. 
Love,  and  love  only,  is  the  loan  for  love. 
Lorenzo  !  pride  repress ;  nor  hope  to  find 
A  friend,  but  what  has  found  a  friend  in  thee. 
All  like  the  purchase  ;  few  the  price  will  pay: 
And  this  makes  fnends  such  miracles  below 


175  The  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

Patience. 
D€ware  of  desp'rate  steps.     The  darkest  day 
(Live  till  to-morrow)  will  have  pass'd  away 

Ltixury. 

O  luxury ! 

J'ane  of  elated  life,  of  affluent  states, 
What  dreary  change,  what  ruins  is  not  thine! 
How  doth  thy  bowl  intoxicate  the  mind! 
To  the  soft  entrance  of  thy  rosy  cave, 
How  dost  thou  lure  the  fortunate  and  great ! 
Dreadful  attraction  I 

Virtuous  activity. 
Seize,  mortals  I  seize  the  transient  hour ; 
Improve  each  moment  as  it  flies :  ' 

Life's  short  summer — man  a  flow'r; 
He  dies — Alas  ! — how  soon  he  dies  ! 

The  source  of  happiness. 
Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense. 
Lie  in  three  words  ;  health,  peace,  and  competence: 
But  health  consists  with  temperance  alone  ; 
And  peace,  O  virtue  !  peace  is  all  thy  own. 

Placid  emotion. 
Who  can  forbear  to  smile  with  nature  ?  Can 
The  stormy  passions  in  tlie  bosom  roll, 
While  ev'ry  gale  is  peace,  and  ev'ry  grove 
Is  melody .'' 

Solitude.* 
O  sacred  solitude  ;  divine  retreat  I 
Choice  of  the  prudent !  envy  of  the  great  I 
By  thy  pure  stream,  or  in  thy  waring  shade, 
'VV'e  court  fair  wisdom,  that  celestial  maid  : 
The  genuine  offspring  of  her  lov'd  embrace 
(Strangers  on  earth,)  are  innocence  and  peace. 
There  from  the  ways  of  men  laid  safe  ashore, 
We  smile  to  hear  the  distant  tempest  roar; 
There,  bless'd  with  health,  with  business  unperplex'd> 
This  life  we  relish,  and  ensure  the  next. 

Presume  not  on  to-morrow. 
In  human  hearts  what  boMer  thoughts  can  rise. 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  davrn .' 
Where  is  to-morrow?  In  another  world. 
For  numbers  this  is  certain ;  the  reverse 
Is  sure  to  none. 
•  ^j  iiolitudc  here  is  meant,  a  temporary  seclusion  firom  the  world- 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences,  SfC.  177 

Dum  vivinius,  vivairus. —  While  toe  live,  let  us  live. 
"  Live,  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say, 
"  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day." 
"Live,  while  you  live,"  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
"  And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies." 
Lord  I  in  my  views,  let  both  united  be  ; 
I  live  in  pleasure,  when  I  live  to  thee  I — doddridge. 
SECTION  IV 

VERSKS  IN  VARIOUS  FORMS. 

TTie  security  of  virtue. 
Let  coward  guilt,  with  pallid  fear, 

To  shelt'ring  caverns  fly, 
And  justly  dread  the  vengeful  fate, 

That  thunders  through  the  sky. 
Protected  by  that  hand,  whose  law, 

The  threat'ning  storms  obey. 
Intrepid  virtue  smiles  secure, 

As  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Resignation. 
And  Oh  !   by  errour's  force  subdu'd, 

Since  oft  my  stubborn  will 
Prepost'rous  shuns  the  latent  good, 

And  grasps  the  specious  ill, 
Not  to  my  wish,  but  to  my  want. 

Do  thou  thy  gifts  apply  ; 
Unask'd,  what  good  thou  knowest  grant  i 

What  ill,  though  ask'd,  deny. 

Compassion. 
I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed: 
But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear  ! 

She  will  say,  'tis  a  barbarous  deed. 
For  he  ne'er  can  be  true,  she  averr'd, 

Who  can  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young : 

And  I  lov'd  her  the  more  when  I  heard 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 
Epitaph. 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  a  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 
Fair  science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 
Large  was  his  bounty  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gavetomis'ry  all  he  had — a  tear; 

He  gain'd  from  Heav'n  'twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend : 


178  The  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  aUke  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 
Joy  and  sorrow  connected. 
Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 
See  a  kindred  grief  pursue  ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads, 
Approaching-  comforts  view. 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow, 
Chastis'd  by  sable  tints  of  woe  ; 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

The  golden  mean. 
He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  mans'  door  ' 

Imbitt'ring  all  his  state, 
The  tallest  pines,  feel  most  the  pow'r 
Of  win'try  blast ;  The  loftiest  tow'r. 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground. 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  side. 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide  ; 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

Moderate  views  and  aims  recommended. 
With  passions  unruffled,  untainted  with  pride. 

By  reason  my  life  let  me  square ; 
The  wants  of  my  nature,  are  cheaply  supplied; 

And  the  rest  are  but  folly  and  care. 
How  vainly,  through  infinite  trouble  and  strife. 

The  man  J'  their  labours  employ  I 
Since  all  that  is  truly  delightful  in  life, 

Is  what  all,  if  they  please,  may  enjoy. 
Attachment  to  life. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found. 

Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  : 
'Twas  therefore  said,  by  ancient  sages, 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years,  « 

So  much,  that  in  our  later  stages, 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  raged> 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

Virtue'' s  address  to  pleasure.* 
Vast  happiness  enjoy  thy  gay  allies! 

A  youth  of  follies,  an  old  age  of  cares  ; 
•Sensual  pleasure. 


Chap,  1.  Select  Sentences,  SfC,  179 

Yonn»  yet  enervate,  old  yet  never  wise, 

Vice  wastes  their  vigour,  and  their  mind  impairs. 
Vain,  idle,  delicate,  in  thoughtless  ease, 

Reserving  woes  for  age,  their  prime  they  spend  ; 
All  wretched,  hopeless,  in  the  evil  days, 

With  sorrow  to  the  verge  of  life  they  tend. 
Griev'd  with  the  present,  of  the  past  ashamed. 

They  live   and   are  despised ;  they  die    no  more  are 
nani'd. 

SECTION    V. 

VERSES  IN  WHICH  SOUND  CORRESPONDS    TO     SIGNIFICATION 

Rough  and  smooth  verge. 
SOFT  is  the  strain  when  zephyr  gently  blows. 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows. 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore. 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse,  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

Sloto  motion  imitated. 
When  Ajax  strives  sonte  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow. 

Swift  and  easy  motion. 
Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 
Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  maia 

Felling;  trees  in  a  wood. 
Loud  sounds  the  axe,  redoubling  strokes  on  stroi 
On  all  sides  round,  the  forest  hurls  her  oaks 
Headlong.     Deep  echoing  groan  the  thickets  browr 
Then  rusthng,  crackling,  crashing,  thunder  down. 

Sovnd  of  a  bow-string, 

The  string  let  fly 

Twang'd  short  and  sharp,  like  the  shrill  swallow's  cry 

The  pheasant. 
See  I  from  the  brake,  the  whirring  pheasant  springs, 
And  mounts  exulting  on  triumphant  wings. 

Scylla  and  Charybdis. 
Dire  Scylla  there  a  scene  of  horrour  forms, 
And  here  Chaiybdis  fills  the  deep  with  storms. 
When  the  tide  rushes  from  her  rumbhng  cares. 
The  rough  rock  roars ;  tumultuous  boil  the  waves. 

Boisterous  and  gentle  sounds. 
Two  craggy  rocks  projecting  to  the  main, 
The  roaring  winds  tempestuous  rage  restrain. 
Within,  the  waves  in  softer  murmurs  rflide  ; 
And  ships  secure  without  their  ha'.sers  ride. 


rown; 


ISO  The  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

Laborious  and  impetuous  motion. 
With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many  a  groan, 
Up  the  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone  : 
The  huge  round  stone  resulting  with  a  bound, 
Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes  along  the  ground 

Regular  and  slow  movement. 
First  march  the  heavy  mules  securely  slow  ; 
O'er  hills,  o'er  dales,  o'er  crags,  o'er  rocks  they  go. 

Jilotion  slow  and  difficult. 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

A  rock  torn  from  the  brow  of  a  mmintain. 
Still  gath'ring  force,  it  smokes,  and  urg'd  amain, 
Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  the  plain. 

Extent  and  violence  of  thfi.  waves. 
The  waves  behind  impel  the  waves  before, 
Wide-rolling,  foaming  high,  and  tumbling  to  the  shore. 

Pensive  numbers. 
Tn  these  deep  solitudes  and  awfultcells. 
Where  heav'nly  pensive  contemplation  dwells, 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns. 
Battle. 

■ Arms  on  armour,  clashing,  bray'd 

Horrible  Discord;  and  the  madding  wheeU 
Of  brazen  furj',  rag'd. 

^  Sound  imitating  reluctance. 

-FSr^ho,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd ; 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  ling'ring  look  behind  } 

SECTION  VI. 

PARAGRAPHS  OF  GREATER  LEI70TII. 

Connubial  affection. 
THE  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage. 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age, 
Preseiv'dby  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention  : 
But  lives,  when  that  exteriour  grace. 
Which  first  inspired  the  f^ame,  decays. 
'Tis  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind  : 
To  faults  compassionate,  or  blind ; 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure. 
But  angry,  coarse-  and  harsh  expression, 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession  ; 


Chap.  1.  Select  Sentences.  'Bl 

Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his, 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 

Swarms  of  flying  insects. 
Thick  in  yon  stream  of  light,  a  thousand  ways, 
Upward  and  downward,  thwarting^  and  convolv'd, 
The  quiv'ring  nations  sport ;  till,  tempest-wing'd, 
Fierce  winter  sweeps  them  from  the  face  of  day. 
Ev'n  so,  luxurious  men,  unheeding,  pass 
An  idle  summer  life,  in  fortune's  shine, 
A  season's  gliter  I  Thus  they  flutter  on, 
From  toy  to  toy,  from  vanity  to  vice ; 
Till,  blown  away  by  death,  oblivion  comes 
Behind,  and  strikes  them  from  the  book  of  lit 

Beneficence  its  own  reward. 
My  fortune  (for  I'll  mention  all, 
And  more  than  you  dare  tell)  is  small ; 
Yet  ev'ry  friend  partakes  my  store,  ^ 

And  want  goes  smiling  from  my  door. 
Will  forty  shillings  warm  the  breast 
Of  worth  or  industry  distress'd? 
This  sum  I  cheerfully  impart ; 
'Tis  fourscore  pleasure  to  my  heart  : 
And  you  may  make,  by  means  like  these. 
Five  talents  ten,  whene'er  you  please. 
'Tis  true,  my  little  purse  grows  light ;  ^ 

But  then  I  sleep  so  sweet  at  night ! 
This  grand  specific  will  prevail. 
When  all  the  doctors  .opiates  fail. 

Virtue  the  best  treasure. 
Virtue,  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the  soul, 
is  the  best  gift  of  Heav'n :  a  happiness 
That,  even  above  the  smiles  and  frowns  of  fate. 
Exalts  great  nature's  favourites  :  a  wealth 
That  ne'er  encumbers ;  nor  to  baser  hands 
Can  be  transferr'd.     It  is  the  on'y  good 
Man  justly  boasts  of,  or  can  call  his  own. 
Riches  are  oft  by  guilt  and  baseness  earn'd. 
But  for  ooe  end,  one  much-neglected  use, 
Are  riches  worth  our  care ;  (for  nature's  wants 
Are  few,  and  without  opulence  supplied;) 
This  noble  end  is  to  produce  the  soul ; 
To  show  the  virtues  in  their  fairest  light ; 
And  make  humanity  the  minister 
Of  bounteous  Providence. 

Q 


102  The  English  Reader  Part.  i. 

Contemplation. 
As  yet  'tis  midnight  deep.     The  weary  clouds, 
Slow  meeting,  mingle  into  solid  gloom. 
Now,  while  the  drowsy  world  lies  lost  in  sleep, 
Let  me  associate  with  the  serious  liight, 
And  contemplation,  her  sedate  compeer; 
Let  me  shake  off  the  intrusive  cares  of  day, 
And  lay  the  meddling  senses  all  aside. 

Where  now,  ye  lying  vanities  of  life ! 
Ye  ever  tempting,  ever  cheating  train  I 
Where  are  you  now  ?   and  what  is  your  amount } 
Vexation,  disappointment,  and  remorse. 
Sad,  sick'ning  thought '    And  yet,  deluded  man, 
A  scene  of  crude  disjointed  visions  past, 
And  broken  slumbers,  rises  still  resolv'd. 
With  new  flush'd  hopes,  to  run  the  giddy  round. 

Pleasure  of  piety, 
A  Deity  "believ'd,  is  joy  begun  ; 
A  Deity  adorM,  is  joy  advanc'd  ; 
A  Deity  belov'd,  is  joy  matur'd. 
Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires: 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next. 
O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horrour  hides. 
Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy. 
That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still; 
Prayer  ardent  opens  heav'n,  lets  down  a  stream 
Of  glory,  on  the  consecrated  hour 
Of  man  in  audience  with  the  Deity. 

CHAPTER  n. 

NARRATIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  1. 

The  hears  and  Ike  bees. 
AS  two  young  bears,  in  wanton  mood. 
Forth  issuing  from  a  neighbouring  wood, 
Came  where  th'  industrious  bees  had  stor'd, 
In  artful  cells,  their  luscious  hoard  ; 
O'erjoy'd  they  seiz'd,  with  eager  haste, 
Luxurious  on  the  rich  repast. 
Alarm'd  at  this,  the  little  crew. 
About  tlieir  ears,  vindictive  flew. 
2  The  beasts,  unable  to  sustain 

Th'  unequal  combat,  quit  the  plain  : 
Half-blind  with  rage,  and  mad  with  pain, 
Their  native  shelter  tliey  regain  ; 


Cluip.  2  J^nrrative  Pieces.  183 

There  sit,  and  now.  discreeter  grown, 
Too  late  tlieir  rashness  they  bemoan  ; 
And  this  by  dear  experience  gain. 
That  pleasure's  ever  bought  with  paia. 
3  So  when  the  gilded  baits  of  vice, 
Are  plac'd  before  our  longing  eyes, 
With  greedy  haste  we  snatcli  our  fill, 
And  swallow  down  the  latent  ill : 
But  when  experience  opes  our  eyes, 
Away  the  fancied  pleasure  flies. 
It  flies,  but  Oh  !    too  late  we  find, 
It  leaves  a  real  sting  behind. — jmerrick. 

SECTION  II. 
The  night'nigale  and  the  glow-wo'rm 
A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around. 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  iii  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 

2  The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harrangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent— 
*'  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"  As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 

You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  Power  divine, 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine  ; 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
ISIight  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 

3  The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Releas'd  him,  as  my  story  tells. 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 
Hence,  jarring  sectaries  may  learn, 
Their  real  int'rest  to  discern ; 

That  brother  should  not  war  with  broth'^r. 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other  : 


184  The  English  Reader.  Part   2. 

But  sing-  and  shine  by  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor,  transient  night  is  spent 
Respecting-,  in  each  other's  case. 
The  g'i.fts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

4  Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name. 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim : 
Peace,  botli  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps,  and  him  that  flies. — cowper* 

SECTION  III. 

The  trials  of  virtue. 
PLAC'D  on  the  verge  of  youth,  my  mind 

Life's  op'ning  scene  survey'd  : 
I  v'Cvv'd  its  ills  of  various  kmd. 

Afflicted  and  afraid. 

2  But  chief  my  fear  tl>e  dangers  mov'd 

That  virtue's  path  enclose  : 
My  heart  the  wise  pursuit  approv'd ; 
But  O,  what  toils  oppose ' 

3  For  see,  ah  see  !   while  yet  her  ways 

With  doubtful  step  I  tread, 
A  hostile  world  its  terrours  raise, 
Its  snares  delusive  spread. 

4  O  how  shall  I,  with  heart  prepar'd, 

Those  terrours  learn  to  meet  ? 
How,  from  the  thousand  snares  to  guard 
My  unexperienc'd  feet  ? 

5  As  thus  T  mus'd,  oppressive  sleep, 

Soft  o'er  my  temples  drew 
Oblivion's  veil. — The  wat'ry  deep, 
(An  object  strange  and  new,) 

6  Before  me  rose  :  on  the  wide  shore 

Observant  as  1  stood, 
The  gath'ring  storms  around  me  roar. 
And  heave  the  boiling  flood. 

7  Near  and  more  near  the  billows  rise ; 

Ev'n  now  my  steps  they  lave  ; 
And  death,  to  my  affrighted  eyes, 
Approach'd  in  ev'ry  wave. 

8  What  hope,  or  whither  to  retreat ! 

Each  nerve  at  once  unstrung  ; 
Chill  fear  had  fetter'd  fast  my  feet. 
And  chain'd  my  speechless  tongue. 


Chap.  2.  J^arrative  Piecet,. 

9  I  felt  my  heart  within  me  die ; 

When  sudden  to  mine  ear 
A  voice,  descending  from  on  high, 
Reprov'd  my  erring  fear. 

10  "What  tho'  the  swelling  surge  thou  see 

Impatient  to  devour ; 
Rest,  mortal,  rest  on  God's  decree, 
And  thankful  own  his  pow'r. 

1 1  Know,  when  he  bade  the  deep  appear, 

'Thus  far,'  th'  Almighty  said, 
'  Thus  far,  no  farther,  rage  ;    and  here 
'  Let  thy  proud  waves  be  stay'd.' " 

12  I  heard  •  and  lo  !  at  once  controll'd. 

The  waves,  in  wild  retreat. 
Back  on  themselves  reluctant  roll'd 
And,  murm'ring,  left  my  feet. 

13  Deeps,  to  assembling  deeps,  in  vain 

Once  more  the  signal  gave  : 
The  shores  the  rushing  weight  sustain, 
And  check  th'  usurping  wave. 

14  Convinc'd,  in  nature's  volume  wise, 

The  imag'd  truth  I  read  ; 
And  sudden  from  my  waking  eyes, 
Th'  instructive  vision  fled. 

15  Then  why  thus  heavy,  O  my  soul ! 

Say,  why  distrustful  still. 
Thy  thoughts  with  vain  impatience  roll 
O'er  scenes  of  future  ill  ? 

16  Let  faith  suppress  each  rising  fear, 

Each  anxious  doubt  exclude  : 
Thy  Maker's  will  has  plac'd  theehew 
A  ?.Taker  wise  and  good  I 

17  He  too  thy  ev'ry  trial  knows,  , 

Its  just  restraint  to  give; 
Attentive  to  behold  thy  woes, 
And  faithful  to  relieve. 

18  Then  why  thus  heavy,  O  ix y  ooul  ! 

Say,  why  distrustful  still, 
Thv  thoughts  with  vain  impatience  roll, 
O'er  scenes  of  future  ill  ? 

19  Tho'  griefs  unnumber'd  throng  thee  round. 

Still  in  thy  God  confide, 
Whose  finger  marks  the  seas  their  bound, 
And  curbs  the  headlong  tide. — merrick 
Q2 


18S 


186  The  English  Reader.  Pari  2. 

SECTION  IV. 

7%e  youth  and  the  philosopher 
A  GRECIAN  youth  of  talents  rare, 
Whom  Plato's  philosophic  care, 
Had  form''d  for  virtue's  nobler  view, 
By  precept  and  example  too, 
Would  often  boast  his  matchless  skill, 
To  curb  the  steed,  and  g-uide  the  wheel ; 
And  as  he  pass'd  the  gazing  throng, 
With  graceful  ease,  and  smack'd  the  thon^, 
Their  idiot  wonder  they  express'd 
Was  praise  and  transpoi't  to  his  breast. 

2  At  length,  quite  vain,  he  needs  would  show 
His  master  what  his  art  could  do ; 

And  bade  his  slaves  the  chariot  lead 
To  Academus'  sacred  shade. 
The  trembling  grove  confess'd  its  fright ; 
The  wood-nymph  started  at  the  sight ; 
The  muses  drop  the  learned  lyre, 
And  to  their  inmost  shades  retire. 

3  Howe'r,  the  youth,  with  forward  air, 
Bows  to  the  sage,  and  mounts  the  car. 
The  lash  resounds,  the  coursers  spring-, 
The  chariot  marks  the  rolling  ring; 
And  gath'ring  crowds,  with  eager  eyes, 
And  shouts,  pursue  him  as  he  flies. 

4  Triumphant  to  the  goal  return'd, 
With  nobler  thirst  his  bosom  burn'd  ; 
And  now  along  the  indented  plain. 
The  self-same  track  he  marks  again  ; 
Pursues  v/ith  care  the  nice  design, 
Nor  ever  deviates  from  the  line, 
Amazement  seiz'd  the  circling  crowd 
The  youths  with  emulation  glow'd  ; 
Ev'n  bearded  sages  hail'd  the  boy, 
And  all  but  Plato  gaz'd  with  joy. 

5  For  he,  deep-judging  sage,  beheld 
With  pain  the  triumphs  of  the  field  : 
And  when  the  charioteer  drew  nigh. 
And.  flush'd  with  hope,  had  caught  his  eye^ 
*' Alas  I  unhappy  youth,''  hecry'd, 

"  Expect  no  praise  from  me,"  (and  sigh'd. 

6  "With  indignation  I  survey 

Such  skill  and  judgment  thrown  awa)': 


Chap.  2.  J^arrattve  Pieces.  18T 

The  time  profusely  squander'd  tliere, 
On  vulgar  arts  beneath  thy  care, 
If  well  emplo3-'d,  at  loss  expense, 
Had  taught  thee  honour,  virtue,  sense; 
And  rais'd  thee  from  a  coachman's  fate. 
To  govern  men,  and  guide  the  state."  whitehead 

SECTION  V. 
Discourse  between  Adam  and  Eve,  retiring  to  rest. 

NOW  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  liv'ry,  all  things  clad. 
Silence  accompanied,  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nesis, 
Were  sunk ;  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale. 
She,  all  night  long,  her  am'rous  descant  sung: 
Silence  was  pleas'd.     Now  glow'd  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires  :  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  Starr}'  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length, 
Apparent  queen,  unveil'd  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 

2  When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :  "  Fair  consort,  th'  hour 
Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retir'd  to  rest, 

Mind  us  of  like  repose ;  since  God  hath  set 
Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive,  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep. 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumb'rous  weight,  inclines 
Our  eye-lids.     Othe"- creatures  all  day  long 
Kove  idle  unemploy'd,  and  less  need  rest: 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body,  or  of  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity, 
And  the  regard  ofHeav'n  on  all  his  ways; 
While  other  animals  unactive  range, 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 

3  To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streaks  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light,  we  must  be  risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour;  to  reform 

Yon  flow'ry  arbours,  yonder  alleys  green. 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown, 
That  mock  our  scant  manurmg,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth. 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums, 
That  lie  bestrown,  unsightly  and  unsrnooth, 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease. 
Mean  while,  as  nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest." 


IRS  The  English  Header.  Part  2 

4  To  whom  thus  Eve,  with  perfect  beauty  adorn'd  • 
"My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bidst, 
Unargu'd,  1  obey  ;  so  God  ordains. 

With  thee  conversing,  I  forgetrsll  time ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flow'r, 
Glist'ring  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth, 
After  soft  show'rs  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild ;  then  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these,  the  gems  of  heav'n,  her  starry  train 

5  But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds;  nor  rising  sun 
On  tliis  delightful  land  ;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flow'r, 
Glist'ring  with  dew ;  nor  fragrance  after  show'rs 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild ;  nor  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solenm  bird ;  nor  walk  by  moon. 
Or  glitt'ring  star-light, — without  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these  ?  for  whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all  eyes  .>"' 

6  To  whom  our  gen'ral  ancestor  reply'd  : 

"  Daughter  of  God  and  man,  accomphsh'd  Eve, 
These  have  their  course  to  finish  round  the  earth, 
By  morrow  ev'ning ;  and  from  land  to  land, 
In  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn, 
Minist'ring  light  prepar'd,  they  set  and  rise; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain 
Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 
In  nature  and  all  things ;  which  these  soft  fires 
Not  onl}'  enlighten,  but,  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence,  foment,  and  warm, 
Temper,  or  nourish ;  or  in  part  shed  down 
Their  stellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  apter  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  ray. 

7  These  then,  though  unbeheld  m  deep  of  night, 
Shine  not  in  vain  ;  nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 
That  heav'n  would  want  spectators,  God  want  pT-aise; 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  when  we  sleep. 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold. 
Both  day  and  night.     How  often,  from  the  steep 

Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard 


Chap.  2.  Ji^arrative  Pieces.  189 

Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  others, note, 
Sing-ing  their  great  Creator?  Oft  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk 
With  heav'nly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds. 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heav'n." 
8  Thus  talking  hand  in  hand  alone  they  pass'<l 
On  to  their  blissful  bowV. 


-There  arriv'd,  both  stood, 


Both  tura'd  ;  and  under  open  sky,  ador'd 

The  God  that  made  the  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heav'n, 

Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 

And  starry  pole.     "  Thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 

Maker  Omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day. 

Which  we,  in  our  appointed  work  employ'd, 

Have  finished,  happy  in  our  mutual  help. 

And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 

Ordain'd  by  thee ;  and  this  delicious  place, 

For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  wants 

Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 

But  thou  hast  promis'd  from  us  two  a  race, 

To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 

Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 

And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep."      milton. 

SECTION  VI. 

Religion  and  Death. 
LO !  a  form,  divinely  bright. 
Descends,  and  bursts  upon  my  sight ; 
A  seraph  of  illustrious  birth  ! 
(Religion  washer  name  on  earth;) 
supremely  sweet  her  radiant  face, 
And  blooming  with  celestial  grace ! 
Three  shining  cherubs  form'd  her  train, 
Wav'd  their  light  wings,  and  reach'd  the  plain; 
Faith,  w'th  sublime  and  piercing  eye, 
And  pinions  flutt'ring  for  the  sky ; 
Here  Hope,  that  smiling  angel  stands, 
And  golden  anchors  grace  her  hands ; 
There  Charity,  in  robes  of  white. 
Fairest  and  fav'rite  maid  of  light. 
2  The  seraph  spoke — "  'Tis  Reason's  part 
To  govern  and  to  guard  the  heart ; 
To  lull  the  wayward  soul  to  rest, 
When  hopes  and  fears,  distract  the  breast 


190  Tke  English  Reader.  Pan2 

Reason  may  calm  thin  doubtful  strife, 
And  steer  tliy  baric  tli rough  various  life: 
But  when  the  storms  of  death  are  nigh, 
And  midnight  darkness  veils  the  sky, 
Shall  Reason  then  direct  thy  sail, 
Disperse  the  clouds,  or  sink  the  gale  ? 
Stranger,  <Ai.9 skill  alone  is  mine. 
Skill  that  transcends  his  scanty  line.'' 

3  "  Revere  thyself — ihou'rt  near  allied 
To  angels  on  thy  better  side. 

How  various  e'er  their  ranks  or  kmds. 

Angels  are  but  unbodied  minds  : 

Whenihe  partition-walls  decay, 

Men  emerge  angels  from  their  clay. 

Yes,  when  the  frailer  body  dies. 

The  soul  asserts  her  kindred  skies. 

But  minds   though  sprung  forin  heav'nly  race 

Must  first  be  tutor'd  for  tlie  place: 

The  jo)"s  above  are  understood,  ' 

And  relishMonly  by  the  good. 

Who  shall  assume  this  guardian  care  ; 

Who  shall  secure  their  birth-right  there  } 

Souls  are  mij  charge — to  me  'tis  giv'u 

To  train  them  for  their  native  heav'n.'' 

4  "  Know  then — who  bow  the  early  knee, 
And  give  the  willing  heart  to  me ; 
Who  wisely,  Avhen  Temptation  waits, 
Elude  her  frauds,  and  spurn  her  baits; 
Who  dare  to  own  my  injur'd  cause, 
Though  fools  deride  my  sacred  laws ; 
Or  scorn  to  deviate  to  the  wrong, 
Though  persecution  lifts  her  thong ; 
Though  all  the  sons  of  hell  conspire 

To  raise  the  stake  and  light  the  fire; 
Know,  that  for  such  superiour  souls, 
There  lies  a  bliss  beyond  the  poles: 
Where  spirits  shine  with  purer  ray. 
And  brighten  to  meridian  day ; 
AVhere  love,  wiiere  boiindless  friendship  rules 
(No  friends  that  change,  no  love  that  cools  ;) 
Where  rising  floods  of  knowledge  roll. 
And  pour,  and  pour  upon  the  soul  I" 

5  "  But  where's  the  passage  to  the  skies? — 
The  road  through  death's  black  valley  lies 
Nay,  do  not  shudder  at  my  tale ; 

Tbo'  dark  the  shades,  yet  safe  the  rale. 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces,  191 

This  path  the  best  of  men  have  trod ; 

And  who'd  decline  the  road  to  God  ? 

Oh  !  'tis  a  glorious  boon  to  die  I 

This  favour  can't  be  priz'd  too  high." 
^1  While  thus  she  spoke,  my  looks  express'd 

The  raptures  kindling  in  my  breast ; 

My  soul  afix'd  attention  gave  ; 

When  the  stern  monarch  of  the  grave, 

With  haughty  strides  approach'd: — amaz'd 

1  stood,  and  trembled  as  I  gaz'd. 

The  seraph  calm'd  each  anxious  fear 

And  kindly  wip'd  the  falling  tear ; 

Then  basten'd,  with  expanded  wing, 

To  meet  the  pale,  terrific  king. 
7  But  now  what  milder  scenes  arise ! 

The  tyrant  drops  his  hostile  guise ; 

He  seems  a  youth  divinely  fair  ; 

[n  gracef\il  ringlets  waves  his  hair ; 

Hii  wings  their  whit'ning  plumes  display, 

His  burnished  plumes,  reflect  the  day; 

[jight  liows  his  shining  azure  vest, 

And  all  the  angel  stands  confess'd. 
I  view'd  the  change  with  sweet  surprise, 
,     And,  Oh  I  I  panted  for  the  skies : 

Thank'd  heav'n  tiiat  e'er  I  drew  my  breath, 

And  triumph'din  the  thoughts  of  death. — cotton. 

CHAPTER  HI. 
DIDACTIC  PIECES 
SECTION  I. 

Tke  vanity  of  wealth. 
NO  more  thus  brooding  o'enyon  heap. 
With  av'rice  painful  vigils  keep ; 
Still  unenjoy'd  the  present  store, 
Still  endless  sighs  are  breath'd  for  more. 
Oh  !  quit  the  shadow,  catch  the  prize, 
Which  not  all  Indiah-  treasure  buys  ! 
To  purchase  heav'n  has  gold  the  pow'r.^ 
Can  gold  remove  the  mortal  hour? 
In  life  can  love  be  bought  with  gold? 
Are  friendship's  pleasures  to  be  sold  ? 
No — all  that's  worth  a  wish — a  thought 
Fair  virtue  gives  unbrib'd,  unboughl. 
Cease  then  on  trash  thy  liopes  to  bind: 
Let  nobler  views  engage  thy  mind. — nu  johnson 


192  The  English  Reader  Part  2. 

SECTION  II. 

J^othing  formed  m  vain. 
LET  no  presuming-  impious  railer  tax 
Creative  wisdom,  as  if  an^ht  was  form'd 
In  vain,  or  not  for  admirable  ends. 
Shall  little,  haughty  ignorance  pronounce 
His  works  unwise,  of  which  the  smallest  part 
Exceeds  the  narrow  visions  of  her  mind  ? 
As  if,  upon  a  full-proportion'd  dome, 
On  swelling  columns  heav'd  the  pride  of  art, 
A  critic-fly,  whose  feeble  ray  scarce  spreads 
An  inch  around,  with  blind  presumption  bold, 
Should  dare  to  tax  the  structure  of  the  whole. 
2  And  lives  the  man,  whose  universal  e)'e 

Has  swept  at  onoe  th'  unbounded  scheme  of  things , 

Mark'd  their  dependence  so,  and  firm  accord, 

As  with  unfault'ring  accent  to  conclude 

That  this  availeth  nought?  Has  any  seen 

The  mighty  chain  of  beings,  less'ning  down 

From  infinite  perfection,  to  the  brink 

Of  dreary  nothing,  desolate  abyss  I 

From  which  astonish'd  thought,  recoiling,  turns? 

Till  then  alone  let  zealous  praise  ascend, 

And  hymns  of  holy  wonder  to  that  power, 

Whose  wisdom  shines  as  lovely  in  our  minds, 

As  on  our  smilling  eyes  his  servant  sun.— thomsoit 

SECTION  III. 

On  pride. 
OF  all  the  causes,  which  conspires  to  blind 
Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 
What  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules. 
Is  pride  ;  the  never  failing- vice  of  fools. 
Whatever  nature  has  in  worth  deny'd, 
She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  pride  I 
For,  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 
What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swell'd  with  wind 
Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 
And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 
2  If  once  righ'  'eason  drives  that  cloud  away. 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 
Trust  not  yourself;  but,  your  defects  to  know, 
Make  use  of  ev'ry  friend — and  evVy  foe. 
A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring : 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  193 

There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain ; 
And  drinking'  largely  sobers  us  ag'ain. 
S  Fir'd  at  first  sight  with  what  the  muse  imparts, 
In  fearless  youth,  we  tempt  theheiglits  of  arts; 
While,  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind , 
But  more  advanc'd,  behold,  with  strange  surprise, 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise  I 
So,  pleas'd  at  first  the  tow'ring  Alps  we  trj', 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky ; 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seems  the  last ; 
But,  those  attain'd,  we  tremble  to  survey 
'  The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthened  way ; 
Th'  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wand'riug  eyes; 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise.  pope. 

SECTION  IV. 

Cruelty  to  brutes  censured. 
"  WOULD  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends, 
(Though  grac'd  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility,]  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail, 
That  crawls  at  evening  m  the  public  path; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn'd, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

2  The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 
And  charg'd  perhaps  with  venpm,  that  intrudes 
A  visitor  unwelcome  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die. 

A  necesaary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so,  when  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field. 

There  they  are  privileg'd.     And  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there,  is  guilty  of  a  wrong ; 

Disturbs  th'  economy  of  nature's  realm. 

Who,  when  she  form'd,  design'd  them  an  abode 

3  Tlie  sum  is  this:  if  man's  convenience,  health. 
Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 
Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are, 
As  free  to  live  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 


'94  The  English  Reader.  Pat-l.  2. 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 
Who,  I  a  his  sovereign  wisdom,  made  them  all. 

4  Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  spring  time  of  our  years 

Is  soon  dishonour'd  and  defil'd,  in  most. 

By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 

To  check  them.     But,  alas !  none  sooner  shoots, 

If  uurestrainM,  into  luxuriant  growth. 

Than  cruelt}',  most  dev'lish  of  ihem  all. 

5  Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 
And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 

By  which  heav'n   moves  in  pard'ning  guilty  man; 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 
Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it  in  his  turn.-^-cowPER. 

SECTION  V. 
A  paraphrase  on  the  latter  part  of  the  6th  chapter  of  St. 

Matthew. 
WHEN  my  breast  labours  with  oppressive  care, 
And  o'er  my  cheek  descends  the  falling  tear ; 
While  all  my  warring  passions  are  at  strife, 
Oh !  let  me  listen  to  the  words  of  life  1 
Raptures  deep-felt  his  doctrine  did  impart, 
And  thus  he  rais'd  from  earth  the  drooping  heart. 

2  "  Think  not,  when  all  your  scanty  stores  atTord, 
Is  spread  at  once  upon  the  sparing  board; 
Think  not,  when  worn  the  homely  robe  appears, 
While  on  the  roof  the  h-jw'.ing  tempest  bears; 
What  farther  shall  this  feeble  life  sustain. 

And  what  shall  clothe  these  shiv'ring  limbs  agatu. 

3  Say,  does  not  life  its  nourishment  exceed .' 
And  the  fair  body,  its  mvesting  weed? 
Behold  I  and  look  away  your  low  despair — 
See  the  light  tenants  of  the  barren  air : 

To  them,  nor  stores  nor  granaries,  belong ; 
Nought,  but  the  woodland,  and  tlie  pleasing  song, 
Yet,  your  kind  heav'nly    Father  bends  his  eye 
On  the  least  wing  that  flits  along  the  sky. 

4  To  him  they  sing  when  spring  renews  the  plain  ;  1 
To  him  they  cry,  in  winter's  pinching  reign  ;  > 
Nor  is  their  music,  nor  their  plaint  in  vain :  ) 
He  hears  the  gay,  and  the  distressful  call ; 

And  with  unsparing  bounty,  fills  them  all." 

5  "  Observe  the  rising  lih/s  sno^vy  grace ; 
Observe  the  various  vegetable  i  ace  • 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  195 

They  neither  toil,  nor  spin,  but  careless  grow  ; 
Yet  see  how  warm  they  blush !  how  bright  they  glow ! 
What  regal  vestments  can  with  them  compare ! 
What  king  so  shining !  or  what  queen  so  fair !" 
6  "  If  ceaseless,  thus,  the  fowls  of  heav'n  he  feeds; 
If  o'er  the  fields  such  lucid  robes  he  spreads ; 
Will  he  not  care  for  you,  ye  faithless,  say  ? 
Is  he  unwise  ?  or,  are  ye  less  than  they  ?" — Thomson. 

SECTION  VI. 

The  death  of  a  good  man  a  strong  incentive  to  virttie. 
THE  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate, 
Is  privileg'd  beyond  the  common  walk 
Of  virtuous  life,  quite  in  the  verge  of  heav'n. 
Fly,  ye  profane  !  if  not,  draw  near  with  awe. 
Receive  the  blessing,  and  adore  the  chance 
That  threw  in  this  Bethesda  your  disease: 
If  unrestor'd  by  this,  despair  your  cure. 

2  For,  here,  resistless  demonstration  dwells; 
A  death-bed's  a  detector  of  the  heart. 
Here  tir'd  dissimulation  drops  her  mask, 
Thro'  life's  grimace,  that  mistress  of  the  sceoe! 
Here  real,  and  apparent,  are  the  same. 

You  see  the  man ;  you  see  his  hold  on  heav'n. 
If  sound  his  virtue,  as  Philander's  sound. 

3  Heav'n  waits  not  the  last  moment ;  owns  her  friends 
On  this  side  death,  and  points  them  out  to  men ; 

A  lecture,  silent,  but  of  soy 'reign  pow'r ; 
To  vice,  confusion  :  and  to  virtue,  peace. 
Whatever  farce  the  boastful  hero  plays, 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death ; 
And  greater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant  frowns. — young. 

SECTION  VII. 
Reflections  on  a  future  state,  from  a  review  of  winter 
'TIS  done  I  dread  winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms, 
And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquer'd  year. 
How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies  ! 
How  dumb  the  tuneful !  Horror  wide  extends 
His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man  ! 
See  here  thy  pictur'd  life  :  pass  some  few  years, 
Thy  flow'ring  spring,  thy  summer's  ardent  strength. 
Thy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age. 
And  pale  concluding  winter  comes  at  last, 
And  shuts  the  scene. 


196  The  English  Reader.  Part.  2 

t  Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 

Those  dreams  of  greatness  ?  those  unsolid  hopes 
Of  happiness  ?  those  long'inirs  after  fame? 
Those  restless  cares  ?  those  busy  bustUng  days  * 
Those  g'ay-spent,  festive  nig'hts  r  those  veermg  thoughts. 
Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shar'd  thy  life  ? 

3  All  now  are  vanish'd  I  Virtue  sole  survives, 
Immortal,  never-failing  friend  of  man. 

His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.     And  see  I 
'Tis  come,  the  glorious  morn !  the  second  birth 
Of  heav'n  and  earth  1  awak'ing  nature,  hears 
The  new-creating  word,  and  starts  to  life. 
In  ev'ry  heighten'd  form,  from  pain  and  death 
For  ever  free.     The  great  eternal  scheme, 
Involving  all,  ami  in  a  perfect  whole 
Uniting  as  the  prospect  wider  spreads. 
To  reason's  eye  refin'd  clears  up  apace. 

4  Ye  vainly  wise  !  Ye  blind  presumptuous  I  now, 
Confounded  in  the  dust,  adore  that  Power, 
And  Wisdom,  oft  arraign'd  :  see  now  the  cause 
Why  unassuming  worth  in  secret  liv'd, 

And  died  neglected:  why  the  good  man's  share 
In  life  was  gall,  and  bitterness  of  soul : 
Why  the  lone  widow  and  her  orpnans,  pia'd 
In  starving  solitude;  while  luxury. 
In  palaces  lay  straining  her  low  thought, 
To  form  unreal  wants:  why  heav'n-born  truth. 
And  moderation  fair,  wore  the  red  marks 
Of  superstition's  scourge :  why  licens'd  pain, 
That  cruel  spoiler,  that  embosom'd  foe, 
Imbitter'd  all  our  bliss. 
6  Ye  good  distress'd ! 

Ye  noble  few  I  who  here  unbending  stand 
Beneath  life's  pressure,  j'et  bear  up  awhile. 
And  what  your  bounded  view  which  only  saw 
A  little  part  deem'd  evil,  is  no  more : 
The  storms  of  wint'ry  time  will  quickly  pass, 
Axid  one  unbounded  spring  encircle  all. — thomson. 
SECTION  VIII 
Adam's  advice  to  Eve,  to  avoid  temptation 
"  O  WOMAN,  best  are  all  things  as  the  will 
Of  God  ordain'd  them  ;  his  creating  hand 
Nothing  imperfect  or  deficient  left 
Of  all  that  he  created,  much  less  man, 
Or  ought  that  might  his  happy  state  secure 


Chap,  3.  Didactic  Pieces.  19* 

Secure  from  outward  force.     Within  himself 
The  dang-er  lies,  yet  lies  within  his  pow'r: 
Ag^ainst  his  will  he  can  receive  no  harm. 

2  But  God  left  free  the  will ;  for  what  obeys 
Reason,  is  free,  and  reason  he  made  right; 
But  bid  her  well  beware,  and  still  erect, 
Lest,  b)^  some  fair  appearing  good  surprised, 
She  dictate  false,  and  misinform  the  will 
To  do  what  God  expressly  hath  forbid. 
Not  then  mistrust,  but  tender  love,  enjoins 
That  I  should  mind  thee  oft :  and  mind  thou  me. 

3  Firm  we  subsist,  yet  possible  to  sweiTe, 
Since  reason  not  impossibly  may  meet 
Some  specious  object  by  the  foe  subom'd, 
And  fall  into  deception  unaware, 

Not  keeping  strictest  watch,  as  she  was  warn'd. 
Seek  not  temptation  then,  which  to  avoid 
Were  better,  and  most  likely  if  from  me 
Thou  sever  not ;  trial  will  come  unsought. 

4  Wouldst  thou  approve  thy  constancy  ?  approve 
First  thy  obedience ;  th'  other  who  can  know, 
Not  seeing  thee  attempted,  who  attest  ? 

But  if  thou  think,  trial  unsought  may  find 

Us  both  securer  than  thus  warn'd  thou  seem'st, 

Go ;  for  thy  stay,  not  free,  absents  thee  more ; 

Go  in  thy  native  innocence ;  rely 

On  whatthou  hast  of  virtue,  summon  all; 

For  God  towards  thee  hath  done  his  part ;  do  thine.'* 

MILTON. 

SECTION  IX. 
On  procrastination. 
Be  wise  to-day;  'tis  madness  to  defer: 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life. 
Prociastmation  is  the  thief  of  time. 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled  ; 
And,  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
2        Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 

The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live:" 
~     Eor  ever  on  tlie  brink  of  being  born. 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think, 
They  one  day,  shall  not  drivel ;  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion,  takes  up  ready  praise  ; 
At  least  their  own ;  their  fu^ni-e  selves  applauds 
ii  2 


198  The  English  Reaaer.  Part   2. 

How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead ! 
Time  loilg^'d  in  their  own  hands  is  folly's  vails ; 
That  lodj'd  in  fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign ; 
The  tliingthey  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone. 
'Tis  not  in  folly,  not  to  scorn  a  fool ; 
And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

3  All  promise  is  poor  dilatorj'  man  ; 

And  that  thro'  ev'ry  stage.     When  young,  indeed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 

Unanxious  for  ourselves ;  and  only  wish, 

As  duteous  sons,  our    fathers  were  more  wise. 

At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 

Knows  it  at  fortj',  and  reforms  his  plan ; 

At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay ; 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 

In  all  the  rnag'nanimity  of  thought, 

Resolves,  and  re-resolves,  then  dies  the  same. 

4  And  why?  Because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal,  but  themselves; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  thro'  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air. 
Soon  close ;  where,  past  the  shaft,  no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wing-  no  scar  the  sky  retains ; 

The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel; 

So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death. 

Ev'n  with  the  tender  tear  which  Nature  sheds 

O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. — young. 

SECTION  X. 

That  philosophy,  which  stops  at  secondaiy  causes,  reproved. 

HAPPY  the  man  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 

In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life  I 

Resolving  ail  events,  with  their  effects  ■  » 

And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 

And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 

Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 

The  least  of  our  concerns ;  (since  from  the  least 

The  greatest  oft  originate;)  could  chance 

Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 

O  e  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan; 

Then  God  might  be  surpris'd,  and  unforeseen 

Contingence  might  alarm  him  and  disturb 

The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  affairs. 
2  This  truth,  philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 

In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  u'erlooks : 


Chap.  3.  Didactic  Piecen.  199 

And  having  found  his  instrument,  forgets 

Or  disregards,  or  more  presumptuous  still, 

Denies  the  powV  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims 

His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men 

That  live  an  atheist  life ;  involves  the  heav'n 

In  tempests;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 

And  gives  them  all  their  fury ;  bids  a  plague 

Kindle  a  fiery  boil  upon  the  skin. 

And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  health; 
5  He  calls  for  famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 

Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivel'd  lips. 

And  taints  the  golden  ear;  he  springs  his  mines, 

And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast : 

Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 

Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs 

And  principles ;  of  causes,  how  they  work 

Br  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects, 

Of  action  and  re-action. 
4  He  has  found 

The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels; 

And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear. 

Thou  fool !  will  thy  discov'ry  of  the  cause 

Suspend  th'  effect,  or  heal  it  ?  Has  not  God 

Still  wrought  by  means  smce  first  he  made  the  world  * 

And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means 

To  drown  it?  What  is  his  creation  less 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means. 

Formed  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will? 

Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve;  ask  of  him. 

Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  has  taught; 

And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all.  cowper 

SECTIO?f  XL 

fiulignant  sentiments  on  national  prejudices  and  hatred  ;  and 

on  slavery. 

OH,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade. 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 

Might  never  reach  me  more  I  My  ear  is  pain'd, 

My  soul  is  sick  with  ev'ry  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  fiU'd 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart; 

It  does  not  feel  for  man.     The  nat'ral  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  sever'd,  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 


300  77te  English  Reader.  Part  2, 

2  He  finds  his  fellow  g'uilty  of  a  skin 
Notcolour'd  like  his  own;  and  having  pow'r 
T'  enforce  the  wrong',  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey-. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  fiith 

Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interpos'd. 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  liad  else, 
Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 

3  Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  , 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

4  Then  what  is  man  !  And  what  man  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground. 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep. 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 

B  Nc :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  priz'd  above  all  price ; 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave,  * 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home — then  why  abroad  ? 
And  theythemselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd 

6  Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England :  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  falL 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then. 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'iy  vein 
Of  all  your  empire;  thatAvhere  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. — cowper 

CHAPTER  IV. 

DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

The  morning  in  summer.    ■ 
THE  meek-ey'd  morn  appears,  mother  of  dews. 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east ; 
Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  wid'ning  glow; 
And  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face 


Chap.  4.  Descriptive  Pieces.  ,201 

Wtiite  break  the  clouds  away.     With  quick'nd  step, 
Brown  eight  retires  :  young-  day  pours  in  apace, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
2^The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  thro'  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents  shine ; 
And  from  the  bladed  field,  tlie  fearful  hare 
Limps,  awkward  :  while  along  the  forest-glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.     Music  awakes 
The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 

3  Rous'd  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  peace  he  dwells ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 

His  flock  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 
Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake  ; 
And,  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy 
The  cool,  the  fragrant,  and  the  silent  hour, 
To   meditation  due  and  sacred  song  ? 

4  For  is  there  aught  in  sleep  can  charm  the  wise? 
To  lie  in  dead  oblivion,  losing  half 

The  fleeting  moments  oftooshorta  life  ; 
Total  extinction  of  th'  enlighten'd  soul ! 
Or  else  to  feverish  vanity  alive, 
Wilder'd,  and  tossing  thro'  distemper'd  dreams  } 
Who  would,  in  such  a  gloomy  stare,  remain 
Longer  than  nature  craves  ;  when  ev'ry  muse 
And  every  blooming  pleasure,  waits  witliout, 
To  bless  the  wildly  devious,  morning  walk  ? — Thomson 
SECTION  IL 
Rural  sounds,  as  well  as  rural  sights,  delightful. 
NOR  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood, 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music,  not  uulike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind, 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  flutt'ring  all  at  once. 
2  Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods ;  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighb'ring  fountain;  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 


202  The  English  Reader.  Pari  2 

Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that,  with  a  livelier  green, 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inan'hnale  employs  sweet  sounds;  ^ 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  slill; 
To  sooth  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
3  Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  live-long  night.     Nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 
Nice  finger'd  art  must  emulate  in  vain. 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime, 
In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming-  loud; 
The  Jay,  the  pye,  and  ev'n  the  boding  owl, 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves,  and  harsh. 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. — cowpeb 

SECTION  III. 

The  rose. 
THE  rose  had  been  wash'd,  just  wash'd  in  a  shower, 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  convey'd ; 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber'd  the  flower. 

And  weigh'd  down  its  beautiful  head. 

2  The  cup  was  all  fill'd,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet. 

And  it  seem'd  to  a  fanciful  view. 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret, 
On  the  flourishing  bush  were  it  grew. 

3  I  hastly  seiz'd  it,  unfit  as  it  was 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drown'd ; 
And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  ! 
I  snapp'd  it — it  fell  to  the  ground. 

4  And  such,  I  exclaim'd,  is  the  pitiless  part, 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind  ; 
Regardless  of  wrmging  and  breaking  a  heart. 
Already  to  sorrow  resign'd. 

5  This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less. 

Might  have  bloom'd  with  its  owner  awhile : 
And  the  tear  that  is  wip'd  with  a  little  address. 
May  be  follow'd  perhaps  by  a  smile. — cowper. 

SECTION  IV. 

Care  of  birds  for  their  young 
As  thus  the  patient  dam  assiduous  sits, 
Not  to  be  tempted  from  her  tender  task. 


Chap.  4.  Descriptive  Pieces.  203' 

Or  by  sharp  hunger,  or  by  smooth  delight, 
Tho'  the  whole  loosen'd  spring  around  her  blows, 
Her  sympathising  partner  takes  his  stand 
High  on  th'  opponent  bank,  and  ceaseles  sings 
The  tedious  time  away ;  or  else  supplies 
Her  place  a  moment,  while  she  sudden  flits 
To  pick  the  scanty  meal. 

2  Th'  appointed  time 
With  pious  toil  fulfil'd,  the  callow  young, 
Warm'd  and  expanded  into  perfect  life, 
Their  brittle  bondage  break,  and  come  to  light ; 
A  helpless  family,  demanding  food 

With  constant  clamour.     O  what  passions  then, 
What  melting  sentiments  of  kindly  care, 
On  the  new  parents  seize ! 

3  Away  they  fly 
Affectionate,  and  undesiring  bear 

The  most  delicious  morsel  to  their  young; 
Which  equally  distributed,  again 
The  search  begins.     Even  so  a  gentle  pair, 
By  fortune  sunk,  but  form'd  of  gen'rous  mould, 
And  charm'd  with  cares  beyond  the  vulgar  breast. 
In  some  lone  cot  amid  the  distant  woods, 
Sustain'd  a!oneby  providential  Heav'n, 
Oft,  as  they  weeping  eye  their  infant  train. 
Check  their  own  appetites,  and  give  them  all. — Thomson 
SECTION  V. 

Liberty  and  slavery  contrasted.     Part  of  a  letter  toritlen 
from  Italy,  by  Addison. 
ROW  has  kind  Heav'n  adorn'd  this  happy  land, 
And  scatter'd  blessings  with  a  wasteful  hand ! 
But  what  avail  lier  unexhausted  stores. 
Her  blooming  mountains,  and  her  sunny  shores, 
With  all  the  gifts  that  heav'n  and  earth  impart, 
The  smiles  of  nature,  and  the  charms  of  art,  / 

While  proud  oppression  in  her  valleys  reigns, 
And  tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains  ? 
The  poor  inhabitant  beholds  in  vain 
The  redd'ning  orange,  and  the  swelling  grain; 
Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines, 
And  in  the  myrtle's  fragrant  shade,  repines. 

2  Oh,  Liberty,  thou  pow'r  supremely  bright, 
Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with  delight! 
Perpetual  pleasures  in  thy  prerience  reign, 
And  smiling  p'enty  leads  thy  wanton  train 


?04  The  English  Reader.  Parti. 

Eas'd  of  her  load,  subjection  grows  more  light, 
And  poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy  sight. 
Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay; 
Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleasure  to  the  day 
On  foreign  mountains,  may  the  sun  refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  wine: 
With  citron  groves  adorn  a  distant  soil, 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of  oil : 
We  envy  not  the  warmer  clime  that  lies 
In  tea  degrees  of  more  indulgent  skies  ; 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heav'n  repine, 
Tho'  o'er  our  heads  the  frozen  Pleiads  shine : 
'Tis  Liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's  isle. 
And  makesner  barren  rocks,and  her  bleak  mountains  smile 
SECTION  VI. 

Charity.    A  paraphrase  on  the  \2th  chapter  of  the  first  epis- 
tle to  the  Corinthians. 
DID  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue, 
Than  ever  man  pronounc'd  or  angel  sung ; 
Had  I  all  knowledge,  human  and  divine, 
Tiiat  thought  can  reach,  or  science  can  define; 
And  had  I  pow'r  to  give  that  knowledge  birth, 
In  all  the  speeches  of  the  babbling  earth ; 
Did  Shadrach's  zeal  my  glowing  breast  inspire, 
To  weary  tortures,  and  rejoice  m  fire ; 
Or  had  I  faith  like  that  which  Israel  saw, 
When  Moses  gave  them  miracles,  and  law  ; 
Yet,  gracious  charity,  indulgent  guest, 
Were  not  thy  power  exerted  in  my  breast ; 
Those  speeches  would  send  up  unheeded  pray'r; 
That  scorn  of  life,  would  be  but  wild  despair : 
A  cymbal's  sound  were  better  than  my  voice ; 
My  faith  were  form ;  my  eloquence  were  noise. 

2  Charity,  decent,  modest,  easy,  kind. 
Softens  the  high,  and  rears  the  abject  mind ; 
Knows  with  just  reins,  and  gentle  hand,  to  guide 
Between  vile  shame,  and  arbitrary  pride. 

Not  soon  provok'd  she  easily  forgives ; 
And  much  she  suffers,  as  she  much  believes. 
Soft  peace  she  brings  wherever  she  arrives ; 
She  builds  our  quiet,  as  she  forms  our  lives; 
I>a3s  the  rough  paths  of  peevish  nature  even; 
And  opens  in  each  heart  a  little  heav'n. 

3  Each  other  gift,  which  God  on  man  bestows. 
Its  proper  bounds,  and  due  restriction  knows  i 


Chap.  4.  Descriptive  Pieces.  SOS 

To  one  fix'd  purpose  dedicates  its  pow'r, 
And  finishing  its  act,  exists  no  more. 
Thus,  in  obedience  to  what  Heaven  decrees, 
Knowledg-e  shall  fail,  and  prophecy  shall  cease; 
But  lasting-  charity's  more  ample  sway, 
Nor  botuid  by  time,  nor  subject  to  decay, 
In  happy  triumph  shall  for  ever  live  ; 
And  endless  good  diffuse,  and  endless  praise  receive 
As  through  the  artist's  intervening  glass. 
Our  eye  observes  the  distant  planets  pass 
A  little  we  discover;  but  allow, 
That  more  remains  unseen,  than  art  can  show , 
So  whilst  our  mind  its  knowledge  would  improre, 
(Its  feeble  eye  intent  on  things  above,) 
High  as  we  may,  we  lift  o\ir  reason  up, 
By  faith  directed,  and  confirm'd  by  hope; 
Yet  are  we  able  only  to  survey, 
Dawnings  of  beams,  and  promises  of  day ; 
Heav'ns  fuller  effluence  mocks  our  dazzled  sight; 
Too  great  its  swiftness,  and  too  strong  its  light. 
6  But  soon  the  mediate  clouds  shall  be  dispell'd; 
The  sun  shall  soon  be  face  to  face  beheld. 
In  all  his  robes,  with  all  his  glory  on. 
Seated  sublime  on  his  meridian  throne. 
Then  constant  faith,  and  holy  hope,  shall  die  ; 
One  lost  in  certainty,  and  one  in  joy : 
Whilst  thou,  more  happy  pow'r,  fair  charity, 
Triumphant  sister,  greatest  of  the  three, 
Thy  office,  and  thy  nature  still  the  same, 
Lasting  thy  lamp,  and  unconsum'd  thy  flame, 
Shalt  still  survive — 

Shalt  stand  before  the  host  of  heav'n  confest. 
For  ever  blessing,  and  for  ever  blest. — prior. 
SECTION  VII. 
Picture  of  a  ^ood  man. 
SOME  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw, 
Wliat  nothing  else  than  angel  can  exceed, 
A  man  on  earth,  devoted  to  the  skies ; 
Like  ships  at  sea,  while  in,  above  the  world. 
With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye. 
Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene, 
Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion's  storm 
All  the  black  cares,  and  tumults  of  thii  life. 
Like  harmless  thunders,  breakmg  at  his  feet 
"^.xcite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 
S 


206  The  English  Reader.  Pari.  2. 

2  Earth^s  genuine  sons,  the  sceptred,  anu  llie  slave, 
A  mingled  mob  I  a  wand'ring  herd  I  he  sees, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  vale  ;  in  all  unlike  I 

His  full  reverse  in  all !  What  higher  praise  ? 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right? 
The  present  all  their  care ;  Miefnlure  his. 
When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want, 
They  give  to  fame;  his  bounty  he  conceals. 
Their  virtues  varnish  nature ;  his  exalt. 
JSIankind's  esteem  they  court ;  and  he  his  own. 

3  Theirs  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities : 
His,  the  composM  possession  of  the  true. 
Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  piece, 
All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread ; 
While  party-colour'd  shades  of  happiness, 
With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
A  madman's  robe  ;  each  puff  of  fortune  blows 
The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

4  He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs  .•  where  they 
Behold  a  sun,  he  spies  a  Deity; 

What  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore 
Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees; 
An  empire  in  his  balance,  weighs  a  grain. 
They  things  terrestrial  worship  as  divine : 
His  hopes  immortal  blow  them  by,  as  dust, 
That  dims  his  sight  and  shortens  his  survey, 
Which  longs,  in  infinite,  to  lose  all  bound. 

5  1  itles  and  honours,  (if  they  prove  his  fate,) 
He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignitj' ; 

No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 

They  triumph  in  externals,  (which  conceal 

Man's  real  glory,)  proud  of  an  eclipse  : 

Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud; 

And  nothmg  thinks  so  great  in  man,  as  man. 

Too  dear  he  holds  his  int'rest,  to  neglect 

Another's  welfare,  or  his  right  invade  ; 

Their  int'rest,  Lke  a  lion,  lives  on  prey. 
fi  They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong ; 

Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heavhi, 

Nor  stoops  to  thmk  his  injurer  his  foe  : 

Nought,  but  what  wounds  his  virtue,  wounds  his  peace. 

A  cover'd  heart  their  character  defends  ; 

A  cover'd  iieart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
7  With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees  I 

While  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall' 


Cfiap.  4.  Descriptive  Pieces.  307 

There  no  joys  end,  where  his  full  feast  begins: 

His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 

To  triumph  in  existence,  his  alone; 

And  his  alone  triumphantly  to  think 

His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 

Hib  glorious  course  was,  yesterday,  complete  : 

Death,  then,  was  welcome ;  yet  life  still  is  sweet. — young. 

SECTION  vni. 

The  pleasures  of  retirement. 

O  KNEW  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
The  happiest  he  !  who,  far  from  public  rage, 
Deep  in  the  vale,  with  a  choice  few  retir'd, 
Drinks  the  pure  pleasures  of  the  rural  life. 

2  What  tho'  the  dome  be  wanting,  whose  proud  gate, 
Each  morning,  vomits  out  the  sneaking  crowd 

Of  flatterers  false,  and  in  their  turn  abus'd  ? 

Vile  intercourse  1  What  though  the  glilt'ring  robe, 

Of  ev'ry  hue  reflected  light  can  give, 

Or  floated  loose,  or  stiff  with  mazy  gold, 

The  pride  and  gaze  of  fools,  oppress  him  not  ? 

What  tho',  from  utmost  land  and  sea  purvey'd. 

For  him  each  rarer  tributary  life 

Bleeds  not,  and  his  insatiate  table  heaps 

With  luxury  and  death  ?  What  tho'  his  bowl 

Flames  not  with  costly  juice ;  nor  sunk  in  beds 

Oft  of  gay  care,  he  tosses  out  the  night, 

Or  melts  the  thoughtless  hours  in  idle  state  ? 

What  tho'  he  knows  not  those  fantastic  joys, 

That  still  amuse  the  Avanton,  still  deceive ; 

A  face  of  pleasure,  but  a  heart  of  pain; 

Their  hollow  moments  undelighted  all 

Sure  peace  is  his;  a  solid  life  estrang'd 

To  disappointment,  and  fallacious  hope. 

3  Rich  in  content,  in  natur's  bounty  rich, 

In  herbs  and  fruits;  whatever  greens  the  spring, 
When  heaven  descends  in  showers ;  or  bends  the  bough 
When  summer  reddens,  and  when  autumn  beams: 
Or  in  the  wintry  glebe  whatever  lies 
ConceaI'd,  and  fattens  with  the  richest  sap  : 
These  are  not  wanting ;  nor  the  milky  drove. 
Luxuriant,  spread  o'er  all  the  lowing  vale ; 
Nor  bleating  mountains  ;  nor  the  chide  of  streams 
And  hum  of  bees,  inviting  sleep  sincere 


20R  The  English  Reader.  Part   2 

Into  the  g-uiltless  breast,  beneath  the  shade. 
Or  thrown  at  large  amid  the  fragrant  hay  ; 
Nor  aught    besides  of  prospect,  grove,  or  song 
Dim  grottos,  gleaming  lakes,  and  fountains  clear 
4  Here  too  dwells  simple  truth  :  plain  innocence  ; 
Unsullied  beauty ;  sound  unbroken  youth, 
Patient  of  labour,  with  a  little  pleas  d ; 
Health  ever  blooming  ;  unambitious  toil ; 
Calm  contemplation,  and  poetic  ease. — Thomson. 

SECTION  IX. 

The  pleasure  and  benefit  of  an  improved  and  well-directed 
imagination. 

OH  !  blest  of  Heaven,  who  not  the  languid  songs 

Of  luxury,  the  siren  !  not  the  bribes 

Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 

Of  pageant  Honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 

Those  ever  blooming  sweets,  which,  from  the  store 

Of  nature,  fair  imagination  culls. 

To  charm  th'  enliven'd  soul !  What  Iho'  not  all 

Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  height 

Of  envied  life ;  tho'  only  few  possess 

Patrician  treasures,  or  imperial  state; 

Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 

With  richer  treasures,  and  an  ampler  state 

Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 

Will  deign  to  use  them. 

2  His  the  city's  pomp, 
The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column,  and  the  arch. 
The  breathing  marble  and  the  sculptur'd  gold. 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 
Distils  her  de^s,  and  from  the  silken  gem 

Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds:  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
Witii  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  mom. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings: 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk. 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him. 

3  Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow ;  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence ;  not  a  strain 

From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade  a 

Ascends ;  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake  ^ 


Chap.  5.  Pathetic  Pieces.  209 

Fresh  pleasure,  unreprov'd.     Nor  thence  partakes 

Fresh  pleasure  only  ;  for  th'  attentive  mind, 

By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  po»vers, 

Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home, 

To  find  a  kindred  order ;  to  exert 

Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspir'd  delight :  her  tempered  pow'rs 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

4  But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  Eternal  iMajesty  that  weighed 

The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye:  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,"  and  nobler.     Would  the  forms 

Of  servile  custom  cramp  hergen'rous  pow'rs? 

Would  sordid  policies,  the  barb'rous  growth 

Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 

To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear  ? 

5  Lol  she  appeals  to  nature,  to  tlie  winds 

And  rolling  waves,  the  sun's  unwearied  course. 

The  elements  and  seasons  :  all  declare 

For  what  th'  eternal  maker  has  ordain'd 

The  powers  of  man  :  we  feel  within  ourselves 

His  energy  divine;  he  tells  the  heart. 

He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  love 

What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 

Of  life  and  being  ;  to  be  great  like  Him, 

Beneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men  » 

Whom  nature's  works  instruct,  with  God  himself 

Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day, 

With  his  conceptions;  act  upon  his  planj 

And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls — akenside. 


m 


CHAPTER  V. 
PATHETIC  PIECES. 
SECTION  I. 
The  hermit. 
AT  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still. 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove  ; 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill. 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove: 


210  The  English  Reader.  Part.  2. 

'Twas  thus  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 

While  his  harp  rung-symphonious,  a  hermit  began; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 

He  thought  as  a  sage,  the'  he  felt  as  a  man. 
2 "Ah  !  why,  all  abandon'd  to  darkness  and  wo; 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thj^  bosom  inthral. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay ; 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn 
O  sooth  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away : 

Full  quickly  thej'  pass — but  they  never  return. 
3  ''  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon  half  extinguish'd,  her  crescent  displays: 
But  lately  I  mark'd,  when  majestic  on  high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again  : 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ! 

Ah  fool  I  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

4  "  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more : 

I  mourn  \  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you ; 
For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 

Perfum'd  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glitt'ring  with  dew- 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn  ; 

Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save  : 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  I 

O  whea  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ! 

5  "  Twas  thus  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betray'd, 

That  leads,  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles,  to  blind ; 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
O  pity,  great  Father  of  light,  then  I  cried, 

Thy  creature  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee! 
Lio,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  : 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free 

6  "  And  darkness  and  doubt,  are  now  flying  away ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn  : 
So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and  mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  I 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal,  awakes  from  the  tomb."  ^ 

BEATTIE 


Chap.  5.  Pathetic  Pieces  21 1 

SECTION  II. 

The  beggar's  petition. 
PITY  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span  ; 

Oh !  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

2  These  tatter'd  clothes  my  poverty  bespeak ; 

These  hoary  locks,  proclaim  my  lengthened  years ; 
And  many  a  furrow  in  my  grief-v^^orn  cheek, 
Has  been  the  channel  to  a  flood  of  tears. 

3  Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground. 

With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my  road; 
P''or  plenty  there  a  residence  has  found. 
And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 

4  Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor ! 

Here,  as  I  crav'd  a  morsel  of  their  bread, 
A  pamper'd  menial  drove  me  from  the  door. 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  an  humbler  shed. 

^Oh  1  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome ; 
#     Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the  cold ! 
Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb  ; 

£ir  I  am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 
Id  I  reveal  the  sources  of  mj'  grief, 
If  soft  humanity  e'er  touch'd  your  breast. 
Your  hands  would  not  withhold  the  kind  relief; 
And  tears  of  pit)-,  would  not  be  represt. 

7  Heav'n  sends  misfortunes ;  why  should  we  repine  ? 

'Tis  Heav'n  has  brought  me  to  the  state  you  see ; 
And  3'our  condition  maj'  be  soon  like  mine, 
The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery 

8  A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot ; 

Then,  like  the  lark,  I  sprightly  hail'd  the  morn ; 
But  ah  I  Oppression  forc'd  me  from  my  cot. 
My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  corn. 

9  My  daughter,  once  the  comfort  of  my  age, 

LurM  by  a  villian  from  her  native  home. 

Is  cast  abandon^  on  the  world's  wide  stage, 

And  doom'd  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

10  My  tender  wife,  sweet  soother  of  my  care  ! 

Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stsrn  decree, 
Fell,  ling'ring  fell,  a  victim  to  despair  ; 
And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 


212  The  English  Reader  Parti. 

1 1  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling'  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span  : 
Oh !  give  relief,  and  Heav'n  will  bless  your  store. 
SECTION  III. 
Unhappy  close  of  life, 
HOW  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  O  Death! 
To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possessions! 
Who,  counting  on  long  years  of  pleasure  here, 
Is  quite  unfurnish'd  for  the  world  to  come  ! 
In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Raves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement ; 
Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help ; 
But  shrieks  in  vain  !  How  wishfully  she  looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  hers  ! 
2  A  little  longer;  yet  a  little  longer; 

O  might  she  stay  to  wash  away  her  stains ; 
And  fit  her  for  her  passage!  Mournful  sight! 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood ;  and  ev'ry  groan  .- 

She  heaves  is  big  with  horrour.  But  the  foe,  A 

Like  a  staunch  murd'rer,  steady  to  his  purpose,  • 

Pursues  her  close,  thro'  ev'ry  lane  of  life; 
Nor  misses  once  the  track ;  but  presses  on, 
Till,  forc'd  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge. 
At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin. — r.  blair. 
SECTION  IV. 
Elegy  to  pity. 
HAIL,  lovely  pow'r  !  whose  bosom  heaves  the  sigh, 

When  fancy  paints  the  scene  of  deep  distress* 
Whose  tears,  spontaneous,  crystallize  the  eye, 
When  rigid  fate,  denies  the  pow'r  to  bless. 

2  Not  all  the  sweets  Arabia's  gales  convey 

From  flow'ry  meads,  can  with  that  sigh  comparei 
Not  dew-drops  glitt'ring  in  the  morning  ray, 
Seem  near  so  beauteous  as  that  falling  tear 

3  Devoid  of  fear,  the  fawns  around  thee  play ; 

Emblem  of  peace,  the  dove  beloretho?  flies; 
No  biood-stain'd  traces,  mark  thy  blameless  way; 
Beneath  thy  feet,  no  hapless  insect  dies. 

4  Come,  lovely  nj'mph,  and  range  the  mead  with  me, 

To  spring  the  partridge  from  the  guileful  foe* 
Vi-om  secret  snares  the  struggling  bird  to  free  ; 
And  stop  the  hand  uprais'd  to  give  the  blow 


I 


Chap.  5.  Pathetic  Pieces.  213 

5  And  when  tiie  air  with  heat  meridian  glows, 

And  nature  droops  beneath  the  conquering  gleam, 
Let  us,  slow  wand'ring  where  the  current  flows, 
Save  sinking  flies  that  float  along  the  stream. 

6  Or  turn  to  nobler,  greater  tasks  thy  care, 

To  me  thy  sympathetic  gifts  impart : 
Teach  me  in  friendship's  griefs  to  bear  a  share,. 
And  justly  boast  the  gen'rous  feeling  heart. 

7  Teach  me  to  sooth  the  helpless  orphan's  grief; 

With  timely  aid,  the  widow's  woes  assuage; 
To  mis'ry's  moving  cries  to  yield  relief: 
And  be  tlie  sure  resource  of  drooping  age. 

f>  when  the  genial  spring  of  life  shall  fade, 
Bknd  sinking  nature  own  the  dread  decay, 
pie  soul  congenial  then  may  lend  its  aid, 
And  gild  the  close  of  life's  eventful  day. 

SECTION  V. 
ses  supposed  to  he  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  during 
is  solitary  abode  in  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez. 
monarch  of  all  I  survey, 
right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
im  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute, 
O^Lsolitude  I  where  are  the  charms, 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

2  I  am  dut  of  humanity's  reach  ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone; 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see : 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

3  Society,  friendship,  and  love. 

Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man. 
Oh  had  1  the  wings  of  a  dove. 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  I 
M.V  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  w  ays  of  rehgion  and  truth ; 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 


214  The  English  Reader.  ' "  Part.  & 

4  Religion  !  what  treasure  untold, 

Reside?  in  that  heavenly  word  !  ■^ 

More  precious  than  silver  or  g'old, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  canafford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  ctiurch-going  bell,  ^ 

These  vallies  and  rocks  never  heard;  ^ 

Ne'er  sigk'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smil'cl' when  a  sabbath  appear'd.  V     . 

6  Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport. 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore, 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more.  * 

My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me,  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

6  How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compar'd  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

x4nd  the  swift- winged  arrows  of  light 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there; 
But,  alas  1  recollection  at  hand. 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

7  But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  jiest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair.  j 

There's  mercy  in  every  place ;  ^  / 

And  mercy — encouraging  thought!  '. 

Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. — cowPEB 
SECTION  VI. 
Gratitude. 
,  WHEN  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God! 
My  rising  soul  surveys. 
Transported  with  the  view,  I'm  lost 
In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 
;  O  how  shall  words,  with  equal  warmth 
The  gratitude  declare, 
T'hat  glows  within  my  ravish'd  heart.' 
But  thoti  canst  read  it  there. 
J  Thy  providence  my  life  snstain'd, 

And  all  my  wanis  redrest,  , 


Chap.  5.  Palhelic  Pieces.  216 

When  iTi  the  silent  womb  I  lay, 
And  hung'  upon  the  breast. 

4  To  all  mj'  weak  complaints  and  cries, 

Thy  mercy  lend  an  ear. 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learn 'd, 
To  form  themselves  in  pray'r. 

5  Unnumber'd  comforts  to  my  soul, 

Thy  tender  carebestow'd, 
Before  my  infant  heart  conceiv'd 
From  whom  those  comforts  flow'd. 

n  the  slipp'ry  paths  of  youth, 
"  eedless  steps,  I  ran, 

,  unseen,  coaveyM  me  safe, 

me  up  to  man. 

hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  deaths, 
y  clear'd  my  way ; 


BTthraiigh  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 
More  toi  be  fear'd  than  they. 


8  When  wprn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  thou, 

With  health  renew'd  my  face  ; 
And,  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk, 
Reviv'd  my  soul  with  grace 

9  T%  bounteous  hand,  with  worldly  bliss, 

Has  made  my  cup  run  o'er ; 
And,  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend, 
Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

10  Ten  thousand,  thousand  precious  gifts, 

My  daily  thabks  employ ; 
Nor  is  the  least\a  cheerful  heart, 
That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy> 

1 1  Through  ev'ry  period  of  my  life, 

Thy  j^oodness  I'll  pursue ; 
And,  after  death,  in  distant  worlds, 
The  glorious  tiieme  renew. 

12  When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night. 

Divide  thy  works  no  more, 
My  ever-grateful  heart,  O  Lord ! 
Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

13  Through  all  eternity,  to  thee 

A  joyful  song  I'll  raise ; 
For  O  I  eternity's  too  short 

To  utter  all  thy  praise. — addison. 


£16  Tlie  English  Reader.  Part  2 

SECTION  VII. 

A  man  periihing  in  the  snow ;  from  whence  rejledions  are 
raised  on  the  miseries  of  life. 
AS  thus  the  snows  arise ;  and  foul  and  fierce, 
All  winter  drives  along'  the  darken'd  air; 
In  his  own  loose-revolving^  field,  the  swain 
Disaster'd  stands  ;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow  ;  and  other  scenes, 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain; 
Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild;  but  wanders  on,       * 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray ; 
Impatient  flouncing-  througli  the  drifted  heaps. 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home ;  the  thoughts^ 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  caU  their  vigour  forj"' 
In  many  a  vain  attempt. 

9  How  sinks  his  soul 

What  black  despair,  what  horrour  fills  his  heart ! 
When,  for  the  dusky  spot,  which  fancy  feign'd 
His  tufted  cottag'e  rising  through  the  snow. 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste. 
Far  from  the  track,  and  blest  abode  of  man ; 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast. 
And  ev'ry tempest  howling  oer  his  head,  ^ 

Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 

3  Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind. 
Of  cover'd  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 
A  diredescent,  beyond  the  pow'r  of  frost ! 
Of  faithless  bogs  ;  of  precipices  huge, 
Smooth'd  up  with  snow ;  and  what  is  land,  unknown, 
What  water,  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake. 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils". 

4  These  check  his  fearful  steps ;  and  doivn  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift, 
Th.nking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 
Mix'd  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man. 
His  wire,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen. 

6  In  vain  for  him  th'  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm ; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingled  storm,  demand  their  sire. 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas! 
Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold; 


Chap>  5.  Pathetic  Pieces.  ^i? 

Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.     On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes  ;  shuts  up  sense ; 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping-  cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffen'd  corse, 
Slietch'd  out,  and  bleaching-  in  the  northern  blast. 

6  Ah,  little  thmk  the  gay  licentious  proud. 
Whom  pleasures,  pow'r,  and  affluence  surround ; 
They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth. 
And  wanton,  often  cruel  riot,  waste  ; 

\.h  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death, 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain  I 
How  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood. 
Or  more  devouring  flame  I  How  many  bleed, 
.-  By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man ! 

7  How  many  pine  in  want,  and  dungeon  glooms, 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 

\.Oi  their  own  limbs  I  How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  misery  !  Sore  pierc'd  by  wintry  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty  !  How  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind. 
Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse ! 

8  How  many,  rack'd  with  honest  passions,  droop 
In  deep  retirM  distress  !  How  many  stand 
Around  the  death-bed  of  their  dearest  friends, 
And  point  the  parting  anguish  !  Thought,  fond  man. 
Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills, 

That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life. 
One  scene  of  toil,  of  suffering,  and  of  fate, 
Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appall'd. 
And  heedless  rambling  impulse  learn  to  thmk, 
The  conscious  heart  of  charity  would  warm, 
'   And  her  wide  wish  benevolence  dilate  ; 
The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh ; 
And  into  clear  peTfection,  gradual  bliss, 
Refining  still,  the  social  passions  work. — Thomson. 

SECTION  vni. 

Jl  morning  hymn. 
THESE  are  thy  glorious  works,  parent  of  good. 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  wond'rous  fair;  thyself  how  wond'rous  then 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens^ 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
T 


2JS  The   Eiiglish  Reader.  Part  I 

In  these  thy  lower  works;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  tliought,  and  pow'r  divine. 

2  Speak  ye  who  hest  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing ;  ye,  in  heaven, 
On  earth,  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extoi 

Him  first.  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night. 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  mom 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world,  both  eye  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gain'd,  and  when  thou  falls't 

3  Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st> 
With  the  fix'd stars,  fix'd  in  their  orb  that  flies; 
And  ye  five  ether  wand'ring  fires  that  move 

In  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 

His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  call'd  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix 

And  nourish  all  things;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  maker  still  new  praise. 

4  Ye  mists  and  exhalations  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray,      - 
Till  the  sun  paint   your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honour  to  the  world's  great  author  rise! 
"Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  th'  uncolonr'd  sky. 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  faUing  show'rs, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 

5  His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  frotn  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 
W^ilh  ev'ry  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  ;  ye  birds. 

That  singing,  up  to  heaven's  gate  ascend. 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

6  Ye  t)\atin  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  aartli,  tind  stately  (read,  or  lowly  creep; 
Witness  if  1  be  siletit,  morn  or  even, 


Chap-  6.  Promiscuous  Puces.  ?10 

To  hill  o'er  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade 

Made  vocal  by  mj'  song',  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  UNIVERSAL  Lord  1  be  bounteous  still 

To  g-ive  us  only  g-ood  ;  and  if  the  night 

Has  g-ather'd  aught  of  evil,  or  conceal'd, 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. — miltox. 

CHAPTEil  VI, 

PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Ode  to  content. 
O  THOU,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  I 

Receive  mytemp'iate  vow  : 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole, 
Can  e'er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul. 

And  smooth,  unalter'd  brow. 

2  O  come,  in  simplest  vest  array'd. 
With  all  thy  sober  cheer  displav'd, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 
Thy  mien  compos'd,  thy  even  pace. 
Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdu'd  delight. 

3  No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 
O  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 

To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 
Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye, 

The  modest  virtues  dwell, 

4  Simplicity,  in  attic  vest, 

And  Innocence,  with  candid  breast, 

And  clear  undaunted  eye ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years, 
Fair,  op'ning  thro'  this  vale  of  tears, 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 

5  There  Health,  thro'  whose  calm  bosom  glide. 
The  temp'rate  joys  in  even  tide. 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 
And  Patience  tViere,  thy  sister  meek, 
Presents  her  mild,  unvarying  cheek, 

To  meet  the  offer'd  blow. 

6  Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage, 

With  settled  smiles,  to  meet: 


220  The  English  Reader.  Pari  2. 

Inur'd  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 

lie  bow'd  bis  mpek,  submitted  head, 

And  kiss'd  thy  sainted  feet.  j. 

7  But  thou,  O  nymph,  retir'd  and  coy!  V^ 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 
The  lowliest  chirdren  of  the  ground, 
Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round. 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

8  O  say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  pow'r, 

And  court  thy  g-cntle  sway? 
When  autumn,  friendly  to  the  muse, 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse. 

And  shed  thy  milder  day  ? 

9  When  eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath, 
Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  ev'ry  storm  is  laid  ? 
It  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice, 
Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing^  voice, 

Low  whisp'riug-  tlirough  the  shade. — barbaulo 
SECTION  II. 

The  shepherd  and  the  philosopher. 
REMOTE  from  cities  liv'd  a  swain, 
Unvex'd  with  all  the  cares  of  gain; 
Plis  head  was  silver'd  o'er  with  age, 
And  long  experience  made  him  sage  ; 
In  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 
He  fed  nis  flock,  and  penn'd  the  fold ; 
flis  hours  in  cheerful  labour  flew. 
Nor  envy  nor  ambition  knew: 
His  wisdom  and  his  honest  fame. 
Through  all  the  country,  rais'd  his  name. 
2        A  deep  philosopher  (whose  rules 
Of  moral  life  were  drawn  from  schools) 
The  shepherd's  homely  cottage  sought. 
And  thus  explor'd  his  reach  of  thought. 

"  Whence  is  thy  learning?  Hath  thy  toil 
O'er  books  consum'd  the  midnight  oil? 
Hast  thou  old  Greece,  and  Rome  survey'd, 
And  the  vast  sense  of  Plato  weigh'd  ? 
Hath  Socrates  thy  soul  rcfin'd. 
And  hast  thou  fathom'd  Tully'smind? 
Or,  like  the  wise  Ulysses  thrown, 
By  various  fates,  on  realms  unknown, 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  221 

Hast  thou  through  many  cities  stray'd 
Their  customs,  laws,  and  manners  weigh'd?  * 

3  The  shepherd  modestly  replied, 

"  I  ne'er  the  paths  of  learning  tried ; 
Nor  have  I  roam'd  in  foreign  parts, 
To  read  mankind,  their  laws  and  arts, 
For  man  is  practis'd  in  disguise ; 
He  cheats  the  most  discerning  eyes. 
Who  by  that  search  shall  wiser  grow  ' 
By  that  ourselves  we  never  know. 
The  little  knowledge  I  have  gain'd, 
Was  all  from  simple  nature  drain'd ; 
Hence  my  life's  maxims,  took  their  rise. 
Hence  grew  my  settled  hate  of  vice 

4  The  daily  labours  of  the  bee, 
Awake  my  soul  to  industry. 
Who  can  observe  the  careful  ant, 
And  not  provide  for  future  want? 
My  dog  (the  trustiest  of  his  kind) 
With  gratitude  inflames  my  mind. 
I  mark  his  true,  his  faithful  "way, 
And,  in  my  service,  copy  Tray. 
In  constancy  and  nuptial  love, 

I  learn  my  duty  from  the  dove. 
The  hen,  who  from  the  chilly  air, 
With  pious  wing,  protects  her  care, 
And  ev'ry  fowl  that  flies  at  large, 
Instructs  me  in  a  parent's  charge. 

5  From  nature  too  I  take  my  rule, 
To  shun  contempt  and  ridicule. 
I  never,  with  important  air, 

In  conversation  overbear. 
Can  grave  and  formal  pass  for  wise, 
When  men  the  solemn  owl  despise  ? 
My  tongue  within  my  lips  I  reiu  ; 
For  who  talks  much  must  talk  in  vain. 
We  from  the  wordy  torrent  fly  : 
Who  listens  to  the  chatt'ring  pye  ? 
Nor  would  I,  with  felonious  flight. 
By  stealth  invade  my  neighbour's  right. 

6  Rapacious  animals  we  hate ; 

Kites,  hawks,  and  wolves,  deserve  their  fate. 
Do  not  we  just  abhorrence  find 
Against  the  toad  and  serpent  kind? 
But  envy,  calumny,  and  spite, 
Bear  stronger  venom  in  their  bite. 
T2 


222  The  hngllih  Reader.  Pari.  4- 

Thus  ev'ry  object  of  creation. 
Can  furnibli  hints  to  contemplation  ; 
And,  from  the  most  minute  and  mean, 
A  virtuous  mind  can  morals  flean.'' 
7  "  Thy  fame  is  just,"  the  sag^e  replies, 
"  Thy  virtue  proves  thee  truly  wise. 
Pride  often  guides  the  author's  pen. 
Boobs  as  afl'ected  are  as  men: 
But  he  who  studies  nature's  laws, 
From  certain  truth  his  maxims  draws ; 
And  those,  without  our  schools,  suffice 
To  make  men  moral,  good,  and  wise."-   gat 

SECTION  III. 

The  road  to  happiness  open  to  all  men. 
OH  'happiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 
Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content !  whatever  thy  name. 
That  something  still  which  prompts  th'  eternal  sigh. 
For  which  we  bear  to  live,  or  dare  to  die  : 
Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us  lies; 
O'erlooK'd,  seen  double,  by  the  fool  and  wise; 
Plant  of  celestial  seed,  ifdropt  below. 
Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign'st  to  grow? 

2  Fair  op'ning  to  some  court's  propitious  shrine, 
Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine? 
Twin'd  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield. 
Or  reap'd  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 

Where  grows  ?  where  grows  it  not  ?  if  vain  our  toil, 

We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil. 

FixM  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere  ; 

'Tis  710  where  to  be  found,  or  ev^ry  where ; 

*Tis  never  to  be  bought,  but  always  free  ; 

And,  fled  from  monarchs,  St.  John  I  dwells  with  thee 

3  Ask  of  the  learn'd  the  way.     The  learn'd  are  blind, 
This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  mankind  : 
Some  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in  ease  ; 
Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these: 
Some  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  pain; 
Some  swell'd  to  gods,  confess  ev'n  virtue  vain ; 

Or  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall. 
To  trust  in  cv'ry  thing,  or  doubt  of  all. 

4  Who  thus  define  it,  say  they  more  or  less 
Than  this,  that  happiness  is  happiness  ? 
Take  nature's  path,  and  mad  opinions  leave; 
All  states  can  reach  it,  and  all  heads  conceive; 
Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extreme  they  dwell ; 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  9S3 

There  needs  but  thinlring'  right,  and  meaning'  well ; 
And  mourn  our  various  portions  as  we  please, 
Equal  is  common  sense,  and  common  ease. 
Remember,  man,  "  the  universal  cause, 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  gen'ral  laws ;" 
And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly  call. 
Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all. — pope. 

SECTION  IV. 

7%e  goodness  of  Providence. 
THE  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  ej'c; 
My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hou""s  defend. 

2  When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint. 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountains  pant; 
To  fertile  vales,  and  dewy  meads. 
My  weary  wand'ring  steps  he  leads, 
W'here  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

3  Tho'  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread. 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread. 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill ; 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still : 
Thy  friendly  crook  sliall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

4  Tho'  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile; 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 

With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown'd. 

And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. — addison. 

SECTION  V. 

The  Creator'' s  works  attest  his  greatness 
THE  spacious  firmament  on  high. 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heav'ns,  a  shining  frame. 
Their  great  Original  proclaim  : 
Th'  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 
Does  his  Creator's  pow'r  display, 
And  publishes  to  ev'ry  land, 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 


224  The  English  Reader.  Part  S 

2  Soon  as  the  ev'ning  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wond'rous  tale ; 
And,  nightly,  to  the  list'ning  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  bum, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

3  What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball! 
What  tho'  nor  real  voice  nor  sound, 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found ! 

In  reason's  ear  thej'  all  rejoice. 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 

For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 

"The  hand  that  made  us,  is  Divine." — addison. 

SECTION  VI. 
An  Address  to  the  Deity. 
O  THOU  I  whose  balance  does  the  mountains  weigh ; 
Whose  will  the  wild  tumultuous  seas  obey  ; 
Whose  breath  can  turn  those  wat'ry  vorlds  to  flame, 
That  flame  to  tempest,  and  that  tempest  tame ; 
Earth's  meanest  son,  all  trembling,  prostrate  falls, 
And  on  the  bounty  of  thy  goodness  calls. 

2  O  !  give  the  winds  all  past  offence  to  sweep. 
To  scatter  wide,  or  bury  in  the  deep. 

Thy  pow'r,  my  weakness,  may  I  ever  see, 
And  wholly  dedicate  my  soul  to  thee. 
Reign  oter  my  will ;  my  passions'  ebb  and  flow 
At  thy  command,  nor  human  motive  know  ! 
If  anger  boil,  let  anger  be  my  praise. 
And  sm  the  graceful  indignation  raise. 
My  love  be  warm  to  succour  the  distressed, 
I  And  lift  the  burden  from  the  soul  oppress'd. 

3  O  may  my  understanding  ever  read 

This  glorious  volume  which  thy  wisdom  made ! 

May  sea  and  land,  and  earth  and  heav  n,  be  join'd. 

To  bring  th'  eternal  Author  to  my  mind ! 

W  hen  oceans  roar,  or  awful  thunders  roll, 

May  thoughts  of  thy  dread  vengeance,  shake  my  soul  • 

When  earth's  in  bloom,  or  planets  proudly  shine 

Adore,  my  heart,  the  Majesty  divine  1 

4  Grant  I  may  ever,  at  the  morning  ray 
Open  with  pray'r  the  consecrated  day ; 


Chap.  6  Promiscuous  Pieces.  225 

Tune  thy  g^reat  praise,  and  bid  my  soul  arise, 
And  with  the  mounting-  sun  ascend  the  skies ; 
As  that  advances,  let  my  zeal  improve, 
And  glow  with  ardour  of  consummate  love; 
Nor  cease  at  eve,  but  with  the  setting  sun, 
My  endless  worship  shall  be  still  begun. 

5  And  oh  !  permit  the  gloom  of  solemn  night, 
To  sacred  thought  may  forcibly  invite. 
When  this  world's  shut,  and  awful  planets  rise, 
CsAl  on  our  minds,  and  raise  them  to  the  skies ; 
Compose  our  souls  with  a  less  dazzling  sight, 
And  show  all  nature  in  a  milder  light ; 

How  ev'ry  boist'rous  thought  in  calm  subsides; 
How  the  smooth'd  spirit  into  goodness  glides ! 

6  Oh  how  divine  !  to  tread  the  milky  way, 
To  the  bright  palace  of  the  Lord  of  Day ; 
His  court  admire,  or  for  his  favour  sue, 

Or  leagues  of  friendship  with  his  saints  renew : 
'lea.s'd  to  look  down  and  see  the  world  asleep  ; 
•Vhile  I  long  vigils  to  its  Founder  keep ! 
Canst  thou  not  shake  the  centre  ?  Oh  control, 

iSubdue  by  force,  ihe  rebel  in  my  soul ; 

Thou,  who  canst  still  the  raging  of  the  flood, 

Restrain  the  various  tumults  of  my  blood ; 

Teach  me,  with  equal  firmness,  to  sustain 

Alluring  pleasure,  and  assaulting  pain. 

7  O  may  I  pant  for  thee  in  each  desire ! 
And  with  strong  faith  foment  the  holy  fire  ! 
Stretch  out  my  soul  in  hope,  and  grasp  the  prize» 
Which  in  eternity's  deep  bosom  lies! 

At  the  great  day  of  recompense  behold, 
Devoid  of  fear,  the  fatal  book  unfold! 
Then,  wafted  upward  to  the  blissful  seat, 
From  ag-e  to  age  my  grateful  song  repeat ; 
My  Light,  my  Life,  my  God,  my  Saviour  see, 
And  rival  angels  in  the  praise  of  thee ! — young. 

SECTION  VH, 

TTie  pursuit  of  happiness  often  ill-directed. 
THE  midnight  moon  serenely  smiles 

O'er  nature's  soft  repose  ; 
No  low'ring  cloud  obscures  the  sky, 
Nor  ruffling  tempest  blows. 
2  Now  ev'ry  passion  sinks  to  rest, 
The  throbbing  heart  lies  still ; 


225  77ie  English  Reader.  Pari    4. 

And  varying  schemes  of  life  no  more 
Distract  tlie  lab'ring  will. 

3  In  silence  hu&h'd  to  reason's  voice, 

Attends  each  mental  pow'r: 
Come,  dear  Emilia,  and  enjoy 
Reflection's  fav'rite  hour. 

4  Come,  while  the  peaceful  scene  invites, 

Ijet's  search  this  ample  round  ; 
Where  shall  the  lovely  fleeting  form 
Of  happiness  be  found  ? 

5  Does  it  amidst  the  frolic  mirth 

Of  gay  assemblies  dwell; 
Or  hide  beneath  the  solemn  gloom, 
That  shades  the  hermit's  cell  ? 

6  How  oft  the  laughing  brow  of  joy, 

A  sick'niog  heart  conceals  ! 
And,  through  the  cloister's  deep  recesd) 
Invading  sorrow  steals. 

7  In  vain,  through  beauty,  fortune,  wit, 

The  fugitive  we  trace; 
It  dwells  not  in  the  faithless  smile, 
That  brightens  Clodia's  face. 

8  Perhaps  the  joy  to  these  deny'd. 

The  heart  in  friendship  finds  : 
Ah  I  dear  delusion,  gay  conceit 
Of  visionary  minds  ! 

9  Howe'er  our  varying  notions  rore, 

Yet  all  agree  m  one. 
To  place  its  being  in  some  state, 
At  distance  from  our  own. 

10  O  blind  to  each  indulgent  aim. 

Of  power  supremely  wise, 
Who  fancy  happmess  in  aught 
The  hand  of  Heav'n  denies! 

11  Vain  is  alike  the  joy  we  seek, 

And  vain  what  we  possess, 
Unless  harmonious  reason  tunes  * 

The  passions  into  peace. 

12  To  tempered  wishes,  just  desires 

Is  happiness  confin'd ; 
And,  deaf  to  folly's  call,  attends 
The  music  of  the  mind. — carter. 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  ^SSI 

SECTION  VIII. 

The  Fire-Side. 
DEAR  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly's  maze  advance ;  • 

Tho'  sing'ularity  and  pride 
Be  call'd  our  choice,  we'll  step  aside, 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

2  From  the  gay  world,  we'll  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs; 
No  noisy  neiq^hbour  enters  here. 
No  intermeddling'  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heart-felt  joys. 

3  Ifsolid  happiness  we  prize. 
Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies ; 

And  they  are  fools  who  roani : 
The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow; 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  floiTy 

And  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

4  Of  rest  was  Noah's  dove  bereft, 
When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 

That  safe  retreat,  the  ark  ; 
Giving  her  vain  excursion  o'er. 
The  disappointed  bird  once  more 

Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

5  Tho'  fools  spurn  Hymen's  gentle  pow'rs, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  experience  know. 
That  marriage  rightly  understood. 
Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good, 

A  paradise  below, 

6  Our  babes  shall  richest  comfort  bring; 
If  tutor'd  right,  they'll  prove  a  spring 

Whence  pleasures  ever  rise : 
We'll  form  their  minds,  with  studious  care. 
To  all  that's  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  train  them  for  th-e  skies. 

7  While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage. 
They'll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age, 

And  crown  our  hoary  liairs: 
They'll  grow  in  virtueev'ry  daj-,  i 

And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repaj-, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 


iW  The  English  Reader.  Part  8. 

8  No  borrow'd  joys !  they're  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot: 
Monarchs !  we  envy  not  your  state ; 
We  look  with  pity  on  the  great, 

And  bless  our  humbler  lot. 

9  Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed ! 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need ! 

For  nature's  calls  are  few : 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

10  We'll  therefore  relish,  with  content, 
What'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  pow'r; 
For  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
'Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

1 1  To  be  resign'd,  when  ills  betide, 
Patient  when  favours  are  denied, 

And  pleas'd  with  favours  giv'n: 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part; 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heav'n. 

12  We'll  ask  no  long  protracted  treat, 
Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet; 

But  when  our  feast  is  o'er. 
Grateful  from  table  we'll  arise, 
Nor  grudge  our  sons,  with  envious  eyes* 

The  relics  of  our  store. 

13  Thus,  hand  in  hand,  thro'  life  we'll  g^' 
Its  checker'd  paths  of  joy  and  wo. 

With  cautious  steps,  we'll  tread ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear. 
Without  a  trouble  or  a  fear. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

14  While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  thro'  the  gloomy  vale  attend. 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  angel  whisper  peace. 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. — coTTOir 


chap,  6.  Promiscuous  fieces.  229 

SECTION  IX. 

Providence  vindicated  in  the  present  stale  of  man. 
HEAV'N  from  all  creatures,  hides  the  book  of  fate ; 
All  but  the  pa;je  prescrib'd,  their  present  state ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know 
Or  who  could  suffer  being'  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleas'd  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flow'ry  tood, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  rais'd  to  shed  his  blood.        / 

2  Oh  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  g'lv'n, 

That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heav'n ; 

Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 

A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall; 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurPd, 

And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

3  Hope  humbly  then  ;  with  trembling- pinions  soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 

The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

4  Lo,  the  poor  Indian  I  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind; 

•    His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 

Far  as  the  Solar  Walk  or  Milky  Way, 

Yet,  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  giv'n, 

Behind  the  cloud-topt  hill,  a  humbler  heav'n; 

Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  erabrac'd, 

Some  happier  island  in  the  watr'y  waste ; 

Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold 

No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
6  To  BE,  contents  his  natural  desire; 

He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire : 

But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 

His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 
Go,  wiser  ihou  I  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense, 

Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence; 

Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such ; 

Say  here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much— 
6  In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies ; 

All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies 


230  The  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes ; 

Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 

Aspirng  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 

Aspirng  to  be  angels,  rnen  rebel: 

And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 

Of  ORDER,  sins  against  th'  eternal  cause. — pope. 

SECTION  X. 

Selfishness  reproved. 
HAS  God,  thou  fool  I  work'd  solely  for  thy  good, 
Thy  joy,  thy  pastime,  thy  attire,  thy  food .' 
Who  for  thy  table  feeds  the  wanton  fawn, 
For  him  as  kindly  spreads  the  flow'ry  lawn. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  lark  ascends  and  sings  ? 
Joy  tunes  his  voice,  joy  elevates  his  wings. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  linnet  pours  his  throat  f 
Loves  of  his  own,  and  raptures  swell  the  note. 

2  The  bounding  steed  you  pompously  bestride, 
Shares  with  his  lord  the  pleasure,  and  the  pride 
Is  thine  alone  tfte  seed  that  strews  the  plain  ? 
The  birds  of  heav'n  shall  vindicate  their  grain. 
Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  golden  3'ear? 
Part  pays,  and  justly,  the  deserving  steer. 
The  hog,  that  ploughs  not,  nor  obeys  thy  call, 
Lives  on  the  labours  of  this  lord  of  all. 

3  Know,  nature's  children  all  divide  her  care; 
The  fur  that  warms  a  monarch,  warm'd  a  bear. 
While  man  exclaims,  "  See  all  things  for  my  use!'* 
"  See  man  for  mine  !"  replies  a  pamper'd  goose. 
And  just  as  short  of  reason  he  must  fall. 

Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  not  one  for  all. 

4  Grant  that  the  pow'rful  still  the  weak  conlroul, 
Be  man  the  wit  and  tyrant  of  the  whole ; 
Nature  that  tyrant  checks  :  he  only  knows, 
And  helps  another  creature's  wants  and  woes. 
Say,  will  the  falcon,  stooping  from  above, 
Smit  with  her  varying  plumage,  spare  the  dove  ? 
Admires  the  jay,  the  insect's  gilded  wings  ? 

Or  hears  tlie  hawk  when  Philomela  sings? 

5  Man  cares  for  all :  to  birds  he  gives  his  woods, 
To  beasts  his  pastures,  and  to  fi^h  his  floods ; 
For  some  h.i-i  inf'rest  prompts  him  to  provide, 
For  more  his  pleasures,  yet  for  more  his  pride 
All  fed  oil  one  vain  patron,  and  enjoy 

Th'  extensive  blessing  of  his  luxui-v. 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  231 

5  That  veiy  life  his  learned  hunger  craves, 
He  saves  from  famine,  from  the  savage  saves: 
Nay,  feasts  the  animal  he  dooms  his  feast ; 
And,  till  lie  ends  the  being,  makes  it  blest: 
Which  sees  no  more  the  stroke,  nor  feels  the  pain. 
Than  favour'd  man  by  touch  ethereal  slain. 
The  creature  had  his  feast  of  life  before  ; 
Thou  too  must  perish,  when  thy  feast  is  o'er  ! — popk 

SECTION  XI. 

Humanfrailty. 
WEAK  and  irresolute  is  man ; 

The  purpose  of  to-day. 
Woven  with  painsinto  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away. 

2  The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain ; 
But  passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 
And  it  revives  again. 

3  Some  foe  to  his  upright  mtent, 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part; 
Virtue  engages  his  assent, 
But  pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

4  'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise, 

>  Through  all  his  art  we  view; 

And  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies. 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

5  Bound  on  a  voj'age  of  awful  length, 

And  dangers  little  known, 

A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

6  But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail 

To  reach  the  distant  coast: 
'  The  breath  of  heav'n  must  swell  the  sail, 

Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. — cowper. 

SECTION  XII. 

Ode  to  peace, 
COME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest, 
Return,  and  make  thj'  downy  nest, 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I,  nor  pow'r  pursue. 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view  • 

We  therefore  need  not  part 


232  The  English  Reader.  Pari  2 

2  Where  wilt  thou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  av'rice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles ; 
For  whom,  alas!  dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share, 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

3  The  g'reat,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
Thehea\^'n  that  thou  alone  canst  make; 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream, 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead, 
The  grove  and  the  sequester'd  shade, 

To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 

4  For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  priz'd, 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrific'd 

Whate'er  I  lov'd  before ; 
And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 

And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say 

Farewell,  ire  meet  no  more  ? — cowper. 
SECTION  XIII. 
Ode  to  adversity. 
DAUGHTER  of  Heav'n,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast. 
Whose  iron   scourge,  and  tort'ring  hour. 
The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best  I 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain. 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain. 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

2  When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed. 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heav'nly  birth. 
And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern  rug'ged  nurse  !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore. 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know , 

And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  others  wo 

3  Scar'd  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 
Self-pleasing  folly's  idle  brood, 

Wild  laughter,  noise,  and  thoughtless  joy. 
And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse;  and  with  them  go 
The  summer-friend,  the  flatt'ring  foe. 
By  vain  prosperity  receiv'd. 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believ'd. 


Chap'  6  Promucuous  Pieces.  233 

4  Wisdom,  in  sable  g'arb  array'd, 
Iinmers'd  in  rapt'rous  tlioug-ht  profound, 
And  melancholy,  silent  maid. 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend ; 
Warm  charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  justice  to  herself  severe. 
And  pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly  pleasing  tear. 

5  Oh,  gently,  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 
Dread  power,  lay  thy  chast'ning  hand  ! 
Not  in  thy  gorgoo  terrors  clad. 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band, 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen,) 
With  thund'ring  voice,  and  threat'nmg  mien. 
With  screaming  horror's  fua'ralcry, 
Despair,  and  fell  disease,  and  ghastly  poverty. 

6  Thy  form  benign,  propitious,  wear, 
Thy  milder  influence  impart; 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there, 
To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart. 
The  gen'rous  spark  extinct  revive; 
Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive; 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan ; 
What  others  are  to  feel ;  and  know  myself  a  man.    GRAY. 

SECTION  XIV. 
The  creation  required  to  praise  its  Author. 
■  BEGIN,  my  soul,  th'  exalted  lay  ! 
Let  each  enraptur'd  thought  obey. 

And  praise  th'  Almighty's  nan# . 
Lol  heaven  and  earth,  and  seas,  and  skies. 
In  one  melodious  concert  rise, 
To  swell  th'  inspiring  theme. 

2  Ye  fields  of  light,  celestial  plains, 
Where  gay  tiansporticg  beauty  reigns, 

Ye  scenes  divinely  fair! 
Your  Maker's  wond'rous  pow'r  proclaim 
Tell  how  he  form'd  your  shining  frame 

And  brealh'd  the  fluid  air. 

3  Ye  angels,  catch  the  thrilling  sound  ! 
While  all  th'  adoring  thrones  around, 

His  boundless  mercy  sicg  : 
Let  ev'ry  list'ning  saint  above. 
Wake  all  the  tuneful  soul  of  love. 

And  touch  the  sweetest  string. 
U2 


23^1  The  English  Reader.  Pari.  2. 

4  Join,  ye  loud  spheres,  the  vocal  choir; 
Thou  dazzling  orb  of  liquid  fire, 

The  might}'  chorus  aid: 
Soon  as  gvAy  ev'ning  gilds  the  plain, 
Thou,  moon,  protract  the  melting  strain. 

And  praise  him  in  the  shade. 

5  Thou  heav'n  of  heav'ns,  his  vast  abode; 
Ye  clouds,  proclaim  your  forming  God, 

Who  call'd  yon  worlds  from  night; 
"  Ye  shades  dispel  I"— th'  Eternal  said; 
At  once  th'  involving  darkness  fled, 

And  nature  sprung  to  light. 

6  Whate'era  blooming  world  contains. 
That  wings  the  air,  that  skims  the  plains 

United  praise  bestow : 
Ye  dragons,  sound  his  awful  name 
To  heav'n  aloud;  and  roar  acclaim, 

Ye  swelling  deeps  below. 

7  Let  evVy  element  rejoice ; 

Ye  thunders  burst  with  awful  voice, 

To  HIM  who  bids  you  roll : 
His  praise  in  softer  notes  declare. 
Each  whispering  breeze  of  yielding  air 

And  breathe  it  to  the  soul. 

8  To  him,  ye  grateful  cedars,  bow ; 
Ye  tow'ring  mountains,  bending  low, 

Your  great  Creator  own  ; 
Tell,  when  affrighted  nature  shook, 
How  Sinai  Icinfled  at  his  look, 

And  trembled  at  his  frown. 

9  Ve  flocks  that  haunt  the  humble  vale, 
Ye  insects  flutt'ring  on  the  gale. 

In  mutual  concourse  rise ; 
Crop  the  gay  rose's  vermeil  bloom, 
And  waft  its  spoils,  a  sweet  perfume. 

In  incense  to  the  skies. 

10  Wake  all  ye  mounting  tribes,  and  sing; 
Ye  plumy  warblers  of  the  spring, 

Harmonious  anthems  raise 
To  HIM  who  shap'd  your  finer  mould. 
Who  tipp'd  your  glitt'ring  wings  with  gold, 

And  tun'd  your  voice  to  praise. 

1 1  Let  man,  by  nobler  passions  sway'd. 
The  feeling  heart,  the  judging  head. 

In  heav'nb'  praise  employ 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  S3& 

Spread  his  tremendous  uame  around, 
Till  heav'ns  broad  arch  rings  back  the  sound, 
The  gen'ral  burst  of  joy. 

12  Ye  whom  the  charms  of  grandeur  please, 
Nurs'd  on  the  downy  lap  of  ease, 

Fall  prostrate  at  bis  throne: 
Ye  princes,  rulers,  all  adore . 
Praise  him,  ye  kings,  who  makes  yourpow*r 

An  image  of  his  own. 

13  Ye  fair,  by  natuie  form'd  to  move, 

O  praise  th'  eternal  sourck  of  love, 

With  youth's  enliv'ning  fire  : 
liet  age  take  up  the  tuneful  lay, 
Sigh  his  bless'd  name — then  soar  away, 
And  ask  an  angel's  lyre. — cgilvie. 

SECTION  XV. 

The  universal  prayer. 
FATHER  OF  ALL  !  in  ev'ry  age, 

In  ev'ry  clime,  ador'd. 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  I 

2  Thou  GREAT  FIRST  CAUSE,  least  understood 

Who  all  my  sense  confin'd 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good. 
And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

3  Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 
Left  free  the  human  will. 

4  What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun. 
That  more  than  heav'n  pursue. 
6  What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives. 
Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid,  when  man  receives, 
T'  enjoy,  is  to  obey. 

6  Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span, 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 
Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

7  Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw ; 


236  ''^hk  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

And  (leal  damriation  round  the  land, 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe- 

8  If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart, 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay ;  <V 

If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way  I 

9  Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent. 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 
Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

10  Teach  me  to  feel  another's  wo ; 

To  hide  the  fault  1  see  : 
That  mercy  I  to  others  aliow. 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  • 

11  Mean  tho'  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quicken'd  by  thy  breath  : 
O  lead  me,  wheresoe'er  I  go. 
Thro'  this  day's  life  or  death. 

12  This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  itiy  lot. 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestow'd  or  not, 
And  let  thy  will  be  done. 
j3  To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space. 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies  I 
One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise  ! 
All  nature's  incense  rise. — pope. 
SECTION  XVI. 
Conscience. 
O  trea.ch'rous  conscience  !  while  she  seems  to  sleep 
On  rose  and  myrtle,  luU'd  wiih  syren  song; 
While  she  seems,  nodding  o'er  her  charge,  to  drop 
On  headlong  appetite  the  slacken'd  rein, 
And  give  us  up  to  licence,  unrecall'd, 
Unmark'd; — see,  from  behind  her  secret  stand; 
The  sly  mformer  minutes  ev'ry  fault, 
And  her  dread  diary  with  horror  fills. 

2  Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her  pen ; 
She  reconnoitres  fancy's  airy  band, 

A  watchful  foe  !  the  formidable  spy, 
List'ning  o'erhears  the  whispers  of  our  camp 
Our  dawning  purposes  of  heart  explores, 
And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 

3  As  all  rapacious  usurers  conceal 

Their  doomsday-book  from  all-consuming  heirs. 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  \  239 

Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe,  she\ 

Us  spendthrifts  of  inestimable  time  ; 

Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misapply'd 

In  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves  of  bra 

Writes  our  whole  history  ;  which  death  shiv 

In  ev'ry  pale  delinquent's  private  ear ; 

And  judgment  publish ;  publish  to  more  worlds 

Than  this  ;  and  endless  age  in  groans  resound. — YOUJfO 

SECTION  XVII. 
On  an  Infant. 
TO  the  dark  and  silent  tomb, 
Soon  I  hasten'd  from  the  womb: 
Scarce  the  dawn  of  life  began, 
•    Ere  I  measur'd  out  my  span. 

2  I  no  smiling  pleasures  knew ; 
I  no  gay  delights  could  view : 
Joyless  sojourner  was  I, 
Only  born  to  weep  and  die.— 

3  Happy  infant,  early  bless'd ! 
Rest,  in  peaceful  slumber,  rest , 
Early  rescuM  from  the  cares, 
Which  increase  with  growing  years 

4  No  delights  are  worth  thy  stay, 
Smiling,  as  they  seem,  and  gay; 
Short  and  sickly  are  they  all, 
Hardly  tasted  ere  they  pall 

5  All  our  gaiety  is  vain. 

All  our  laughter  is  but  pain. 
Lasting  only,  and  divine. 
Is  an  innocence  like  tliine. 

SECTION  XVIII. 

The  Cuckoo. 
HAIL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  woody 

Attendant  on  the  spring  ! 
Now  heav'n  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

2  Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green. 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear  : 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  .' 

3  Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flow'rs 


286  The  English  Reader.  Pari    S. 

^  vVhcn  heav'n  is  fill'd  with  music  sweet 
Of  birds  among^  the  bow'rs. 

4  The  school-boy,  wand'ring  in  the  wood, 

To  pull  the  flovv'rs  so  gay. 
Starts,  tliy  curious  voice  to  bear. 
And  imitates  thy  lay- 

5  Soon  as  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fly'st  the  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest,  in  other  lands. 
Another  spring  to  hail. 

6  Sweet  bird!  thy  bovv'r  is  ever  green, 

Thj'  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  uo  sorrow  in  thy  song, 
No  winter  in  thy  year  1 

7  O  could  1  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ; 

WeM  make,  with  socia'  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 
Companions  of  the  spring. — logan 
SECTION  XIX. 
Day.    A  pastoral  in  three  parts, 

MORNING. 

IN  the  barn  the  tenant  cock. 

Close  to  Partlet  perch'd  on  high, 
Briskly  crows  (the  shepherd's  clock!) 

Jocund  that  the  morning's  nigh. 

2  Swiftly,  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

Shadows,  nurs'd  by  night,  retire; 
And  the  peeping  sun-beam,  now, 
Paints  with  gold  the  village  spire 

3  Philomel  forsakes  the  thorn. 

Plaintive  where  she  prates  at  night, 
And  the  lark  to  meet  the  morn. 
Soars  beyond  the  shepherd's  sight. 

4  From  the  low-roof'd  cottage  ridge, 

See  the  chattVing  swallow  spring. 
Darting  through  the  one-arch  bridge, 
Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing. 
6  Now  the  pine-tree's  waving  top. 
Gently  greets  the  mornmg  gale, 
Kidlings,  now,  begin  to  crop 
Daisies,  on  the  dewy  dale. 
6  From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloyd, 
(Restless  tillher  task  be  done,) 


Chap  6.  Promiscuous  Piece*.  239 

Now  the  busy  bee's  employ'd, 
Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

7  Trickling'  through  the  crevic'd  rock, 

Where  the  limpid  stream  distils, 
Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  flock, 
When  'tis  sun-drove  from  the  hillst 

8  Cjliii's  for  the  promis'd  corn, 

(Ere  the  harvest  hopes  are  ripe,) 

Anxious ; — whilst  the  huntsman's  hora, 

Boldly  sounding,  drowns  his  pipe. 

9  Sweet — O  sweet,  the  warbling  throny, 

On  thfe  white  emblossom'd  spray ! 
Nature's  universal  song, 

Echoes  to  the  the  rising  day. 

KOON. 

10  Fervid  on  the  glitt'ring  flood. 

Now  the  noontide  radiance  glows: 
Drooping  o'er  its  infant  bud, 
Not  a  dew-drop's  left  the  rose. 

11  By  the  brook  the  shepherd  dines, 

From  the  fierce  meridian  heat, 
SheUerM  by  the  branching  pmes, 
Pendant  o'er  his  grassy  seat. 

12  Now  the  flock  forsakes  the  glade. 

Where,  uncheck'd,  the  sun-beams  fall. 
Sure  to  find  a  pleasing  shade 
By  the  ivy'd  abbey  wall. 

13  Echo,  in  lier  airy  round, 

O'er  the  river,  rock,  and  hill, 
Caunoi  catch  a  single  sound. 
Save  the  clack  of  yonder  mill. 

14  Cattle  court  the  zephyrs  bland. 

Where  the  streamlet  wanders  cool; 
Or  with  languid  silence  stand 
Midway  in  the  marshy  pool. 

15  But  from  mountain,  dell,~or  stream, 

Not  a  fiutt'ring  zephyr  springs ; 
Fearful  lest  the  noontide  beam, 
ricorch  its  soft,  its  silken  wings. 

16  Not  a  leaf  has  leave  to  stir; 

Nature's  lull'd — serene — and  still: 
Quiet  e'en  the  shepherd's  cur, 
Sleeping  on  the  heath-clad  hill. 


J40  The  English  Reader.  Part  2. 

17  Languid  is  the  landscape  round, 

Till  the  fresh  descending'  show'r, 
Grateful  to  the  thirsty  ground, 
Raises  ev'ry  fainting  flow'r. 

18  Now  the  hill— the  hedge — are  green, 

Now  the  warblers'  throats  in  tune ; 
Blithsome  is  the  verdant  scene, 
Brighten'd  by  the  beams  of  Noon ! 

EVENING. 

19  O'er  the  heath  the  heifer  strays 

Free;  (the  furrow'i  task  is  done;) 
Now  the  village  windows  blaze, 
Burnish'd  by  the  setting  sun. 

20  Now  he  sets  behind  the  hill, 

Sinking  from  a  golden  sky  : 
Can  the  pencil's  mimic  skill, 
Copy  the  refulgent  dye .-' 

21  Trudging  as  the  ploughmen  go, 

(To  the  smoking-  hamlet  bound,) 
Giant-like  their  shadows  grow, 
Lengthen'd  o'er  the  level  ground. 

22  Where  the  rising  forest  spreads 

Shelter  for  the  lordly  dome ! 
To  their  high-built  airy  beds, 
See  the  rooks  returning  home ! 

23  As  the  lark,  with  vary'd  tune, 

Carols  to  the  ev'ning  loud; 
Marks  the  mild  resplendent  moon, 
Breaking  through  a  parted  cloud. 

24  Now  the  hermit  owlet  peeps, 

From  the  barn  or  twisted  brake; 
And  the  blue  mist  slowly  creeps, 
Curling  on  the  silver  lake. 

25  As  the  trout  in  speckled  pride. 

Playful  from  its  bosom  springs ; 
To  the  banks  a  ruffled  tide, 
Verges  in  successive  rings. 

26  Tripping  through  the  silken  grass, 

O'er  the  path-divided  dale, 
Mark  the  rose-complexion'd  lass, 
With  her  well-pois'd  milking  pail ! 

27  Linnets  with  unnumber'd  notes, 

And  the  cuckoo  bird  with  two, 


Chap.  6  Promiscuous  Pieces  241 

Tuning'  sweet  their  mellow  throats, 
Bid  the  setting  sua  adieu. — Cunningham. 

SECTION  XX. 

The  order  of  nature. 
SEE,  thro'  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth, 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting'  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go  ! 
Around,  how  wide  I  how  deep  extend  below; 
Vast  chain  of  being  !  which  from  God  began, 
Nature  etherial,  human,   angel,  man  ; 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee, 
From  thee  to  nothing. — On  superiour  pow'rs 
Were  we  to  press,  inferiour  might  on  ours; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroy'd* 
From  nature's  cham  whatever  link  you  strike, 
Tenth  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

2  And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll, 
Alike  essential  to  the  amazing  whole, 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 
Let  earth,  unbalanc'd  from  her  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  thro'  the  sky; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurl'd, 
Being  on  being  wreck'd,  and  world  on  world ; 
Heav'n's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod, 
And  nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God. 

All  this  dread  order  break — for  whom  ?  for  thee  ? 
Vile  worm  !  Oh  madness!  pride!  impiety  I 

3  What  ifthe  footordam'd  the  dust  to  tread. 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspir'd  to  be  the  head  ? 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repiu'd 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind  ? 
Just  -as  absurb  for  any  part  to  claim 

To  be  another,  in  this  gen'ral  frame; 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains. 
The  great  directing  mind  of  all,  ordains. 
4  All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul : 
That,  chang'd  thro'  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze. 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees ; 
V 


242  The  English  Reader  Part  2. 

Lives  thro'  all  life,  extends  thro'  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  Lair  as  heart ; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  bums : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 
lie  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 
5  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name  : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
*    Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heav'n  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit. — In  this  or  any  other  sphere. 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear : 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Pow'r, 
Or  m  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good  ; 
And.  spite  of  Pride,  in  erring  Reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear — whatever  is,  is  right. — PoFE. 
SECTION  XXI. 
Confidence  in  Divine  protection. 
HOW  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  ! 

How  sure  is  this  defence  I 

Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

2  In  foreign  relms,  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care. 
Through  burning  climes  I  pass'd  unhart, 
And  breath'd  in  tainted  air. 

3  Thy  mercy  sweeten'd  ev'ry  soil, 

Made  ev'ry  region  please  ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm'd. 
And  smooth'd  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

4  Think  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How  with  affrighted  ej"es. 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise  ! 

5  Confusion  dwelt  in  ev'ry  face, 

And  fear  in  ev'ry  heart, 
•  When  waves,  on  waves,  and  gulfs  in  gulfs, 
O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces.  S42 

6  Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  O  Lord ! 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free  ; 
VVhile  in  the  confidence  of  pray'r, 
My  soul  took  hold  on  thee. 

7  For  tho'  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 
Nor  impotent  to  save. 

8  The  storms  was  laid,  the  winds  retir'd; 

Obedient  to  thy  will, 
The  sea  that  roar'd  at  thy  command, 
At  thy  comand  was  still. 

9  In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  deaths. 

Thy  goodness  I'll  adore  ; 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 
And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

10  My  life,  if  thou  preserve  my  life, 
Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 

And  death'  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 
Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee — Addison. 
SECTION  XXII. 
Hymn  on  a  review  of  the  seasons. 
THESE,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father  !  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  soft'ning  air  is  balm* 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles, 
And  ev'ry  sense,  and  ev'ry  heart  is  joy. 

2  Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.    Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year; 
And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 

By  brooks  and  groves.,  in  hoUow-whisp'ring  gales. 

3  Thy  bouuty  shines  in  autumn  unconfin'd. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter,  awful  Thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  roll'd. 
Majestic  darkness  !  On  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidst  the  world  adore ; 
And  humblest  nature  with  Thy  northern  blast. 

4  Mysterious  round  !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train. 


544  The  English  Reader.  Part.  2 

Yf  t  so  delightful  mix'd,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combin'd; 
Shade,  unperceive'd,  so  soft'ning-  into  shade, 
And  all  so  forming-  an  harmonious  whole, 
That  as  thej  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 

5  But  wand'ring'  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  miglity  hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep  shoots,  steammg-,  theuce 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  springs  ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

6  Nature,  attends !  join  ev'ry  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky. 
In  adoration  join  !  and,  ardent  raise 
One  general  song  ! 

Ye,  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn  ! 

7  For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows ;  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain ;  inspirmg  autumn  gleams; 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  black'ning  east ; 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

8  Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Ot  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barb'rous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  th'  Atlantic  isles  ;  'tis  nought  to  me ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 

In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 

And  where  he  vital  breathes  tbere  must  be  joy 

9  When  e'en  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  pow'rs. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing :  I  cannot  go 
Where  universal  love  smiles  not  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
\a  infinite  progression      But  I  lose 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Pieces,  245 

Myself  in  him,  in  light  ineffable  I 

Come  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  his  praise. 

THOMSON. 

SECTION  XXIII. 
On  Solitude. 
O  SOLITUDE,  romantic  maid ! 
Whether  by  nodding^  towers  you  tread, 
Or  haunt  the  desert's  trackless  gloom, 
Or  hover  o''er  the  yawning  tomb, 
Or  climb  the  Andes'  clifted  side, 
Or  by  the  Nile's  coy  source  abide. 
Or,  r.tarting  from  your  half-year's  sleep, 
From  Hecla  view  the  thawing  deep, 
Or,  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day, 
Tadmor's  marble  waste  survey ; 

You,  recluse,  again  I  woo. 

And  again  )'our  steps  pursue. 

2  Plum'd  conceit  himself  surveying'. 
Folly  with  her  shadow  playmg, 
Purse-proud  elbowing  insolence, 
Bloated  empiric,  puff'd  pretence. 
Noise  that  through  a  trumpet  speaks, 
Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks, 
Intrusion,  with  a  fopling's  face ; 

f  Ig-norant  of  time  and  place,) 
bparksoffire  dissension  blowing, 
Ductile,  court-bred  flattery  ^bowing, 
Restraint's  stiffneck,  grimace's  leer 
Squmt-ey'd  censure's  artful  sneer, 
Ambition's  buskins,  steep'd  in  blood. 
Fly  thy  presence.  Solitude ! 

3  Sage  reflection,  bent  with  years, 
Conscious  virtue,  void  of  fears, 
Muffled  silence,  wood-nymph  shy. 
Meditation's  piercing  ej'e, 
Halcjon  peace  on  moss  reclin'd, 
Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind, 
Rapt  earth-gazing  revery. 
Blushing  artless  modesty. 
Health  that  snuffs  the  morning  air, 
FuU-ey'd  truth  with  bosom  bare, 
Inspiration,  nature's  child, 

Seek  the  solitary  wild. 

4  When  all  nature's  hush'd  asleep, 
Nor  love,  nor  guilt,  their  vigils  keep, 

V2 


.46  The  English  Reader.  Part  %  • 

Soft  you  leave  your  cavern'd  den, 
And  wander  o'er  the  works  of  men; 
But  when  Phosphor  bring's  the  dawn, 
By  her  dappled  coursers  drawn, 
Aijain  you  to  j-our  wild  retreat, 
And  the  early  huntsman  meet, 
Where,  as  you  pensive  pass  along', 
You  catch  the  distant  shepherd's  song, 
Or  brush  from  herbs  the  pearly  dew, 
Or  the  rising  primrose  view. 
Devotion  lends  her  heav'n  plum'd  wings, 
You  mount,  and  nature  with  you  sings. 

5  But  when  the  mid-day  fervours  glow. 
To  upland  airy  shades  you  go. 

Where  never  sun-burnt  woodman  camey 

Nor  sportsman  chas'd  the  timid  game: 

And  there,  beneath  an  oak  reclin'd. 

With  drowsy  waterfalls  behind, 

You  sink  to  rest, 

Til",  the  tuneful  bird  of  night, 

From  the  neighb'ring  poplar's  height. 

Wake  you  with  her  solemn  strain, 

And  teach  pleased  echo  to  complain 

6  With  you  roses  brighter  bloom, 
Sweeter  ev'ry  sweet  perfume ; 
Purer  ev'ry  fountain  flows. 
Stronger  every  wilding  grows. 
Let  those  toil  for  gold  who  please, 
Or  for  fame  renounce  their  ease. 
What  is  fame  ?  An  empty  bubble  ? 
Gold?  A  shining  constant  trouble. 
Let  them  for  their  country  bleed ! 
What  was  Sidney's,  Raleigh's  meed  ? 
Man's  not  worth  a  moment's  pain; 
Base,  ungrateful,  fickle,  vain. 

7  Then  let  me,  sequester'd  fair, 
To  your  sybil  grot  repair; 
On  yon  hanging  cliff  it  stands, 
Scoop'd  by  nature's  plastic  hands, 
Bosom'd  in  the  gloomy  shade 

Of  cypress  not  with  age  decay'd ; 
Where  the  owl  still  hooting  sits, 
Where  the  bat  incessant  flits ; 
There  in  loftier  strains  I'll  sing 
Whence  the  changing  seasons  sprmg 


Chap.  6.  Promiscuous  Piecea.  2 

Tell  how  storms  deform  the  skies. 
Whence  the  waves  subside  and  rise, 
Trace  the  comet's  blazing'  tail, 
Weigh  the  planets  in  a  scale; 
Bend,  great  God,  before  thy  shrine; 
The  bournless  microcosm's  thine. 
8  Since  in  each  scheme  of  life  I've  fail'd, 
And  disappointment  seems  entail'd ; 
Since  all  on  earth  I  valuM  most, 
My  guide,  my  stay,  my  friend  is  lost: 
O  Solitude,  now  give  me  lest. 
And  hush  the  tempest  in  mj-  breast. 

0  gently  deign  to  guide  my  feet 
To  j'our  hermit-trodden  seat ;  - 

Whc'e  I  may  live  at  last  my  own,  ' 

Where  I  at  last  may  die  unknown. 

1  spoke;  she  tura'd  her  magic  ray; 
And  thus  she  said,  or  seem'd  to  say ; 

9  Youth,  youVe  mistaken,  if  you  think  to  find 
In  shades,  a  med'cine  for  a  troubled  mind: 
Wan  grief  will  haunt  you  wheresoe'er  you  go, 
Sigh  in  the  breeze,  and  in  the  streamlet  flow. 
There  pale  inaction  pines  his  life  away; 

And  satiate  mourns  the  quick  return  of  day  : 
There,  naked  frenzy  laughing  wild  with  pain, 
Or  bares  the  blade,  or  plunges  in  the  main : 
There  superstition  broods  o'er  all  her  fears, 
And  yells  of  demons  in  the  zephyr  hears. 
But  if  a  hermit  }-ou're  resolv'd  to  dwell, 
And  bid  to  social  life  a  last  farewell ; 
'  Tis  impious. 

10  God  never  made  an  independent  man ; 
'Twould  jar  the  concord  of  his  general  plan. 
See  every  part  of  that  stupendous  whole, 

"  Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul  ;'* 

To  one  great  end  the  general  good,  conspire. 

From  matter,  brute,  to  man,  to  seraph,  fire. 

Should  man  through  nature  solitary  roam. 

His  will  his  sovereign,  every  where  his  home, 

Wtiat  force  would  guard  him  from  the  lion's  jaw? 

Wliat  swiftness  wing  him  from  the  panther's  paw? 

Or,  should  fate  lead  him  to  some  safer  shore. 

Where  panthers  never  prowl,  nor  lions  roar. 

Where  Uberal  nature  all  her  charms  bestows. 

Suns  shine,  birds  sing,  flowers  bloom,  and  water  flows , 


248  Tlie  English  Reader.  Pari  2 

Fool,  dost  thou  think  he'd  revel  on  the  store, 

Absolve  the  care  of  Heav'n,  nor  ask  for  more 

Thoug-h  waters  flow'd,flow'rsbloom'd,  and  Phoebus  shone, 

He'd  sigh,  he'd  murmur,  that  he  was  alone. 

For  know,  the  Maker  on  the  human  breast, 

A  sense  of  kindred,  country,  man  impress'd. 

1 1  Though  natuT'e's  works  the  ruling  mind  declare, 
And  well  deserve  inquiry's  serious  care, 
The  God,  (whate'er  misanthropy  may  say,) 
Shines,  beams  in  man  with  most  unclouded  ray. 
What  boots  it  thee  to  fly  from  pole  to  pole  ? 
Hang  o'er  the  sun  and  with  the  planets  roll  ? 
What  boots  through  space's  furthest  bourns  toroamf 
If  thou,  O  man  a  stranger  art  at  home, 
Then  know  thyself,  the  human  mind  survey ; 
The  use,  the  pleasure,  will  the  toil  repay. 

I2Nor  study  only,  practice  what  you  know; 
Your  life,  your  knowledge,  to  mankind  you  owe 
With  Plato's  olive  wreath  the  bays  entwine ; 
Those  who  in  study,  should  in  practice  shine. 
Say,  does  the  learned  lord  of  Hagley's  shade, 
Charm  man  so  much  by  mossy  fountains  laid, 
As  when  arous'd,  he  stems  corruption's  course, 
And  shakes  the  senate  with  a  Tully's  force? 
When  freedom  gasp'd  beneath  a  Ccesar's  feet, 
Tlien  public  virtue  might  to  shades  retreat : 
But  where  she  breathes,  the  least  may  useful  be. 
And  freedom,  ETritain,  still  belongs  to  thee. 

13 Though  man's  ungrateful,  or  though  fortune  frown, 
Is  the  reward  of  worth  a  song,  or  crown  ? 
Nor  )'et  unrecompens'd  are  virtue's  pains  ; 
Good  Allen  lives,  and  bounteous  Brunswick  reigns. 
On  each  condition  disappointments  wait. 
Enter  the  hut,  and  force  the  guarded  gate. 
Nor  dare  repine,  though  early  friendship  bleed. 
From  love,  the  world,  and  all  its  cares,  he's  freed. 

•  But  know,  adversity's  the  chdd  of  God  : 
Whom  Heaven  approves  of  most,  must  feel  her  rod. 
Wiien  smooth  old  Ocean,  and  each  storm's  asleep. 
Then  ignorance  may  plough  the  watery  deep ; 
But  when  the  demons  of  the  tempest  rave. 
Skill  must  conduct  the  vessel  through  the  wave. 

14  Sidney,  what  good  men  envies  not  thy  blow  ' 
Who  would  not  wish  Anytus* — for  a  foe  ? 
Intrepid  virtue  triumphs  over  fate  ; 

*  One  of  the  accuser:;  of  Socrates. 


CONTE^TS.  249 

The  good  can  never  be  unfortunate. 

And  be  this  maxim  graven  in  thy  mind ; 

The  height  of  virtue  is,  to  serve  mankmd. 

But  when  old  age  has  silver'd  o'er  thy  head, 

When  memory  fails,  and  all  thy  vigour's  fled, 

Then  mayst  thou  seek  the  stillness  of  retreat. 

Then  hear  aloof  the  human  tempest  heat; 

Then  will  I  greet  thee  to  my  woodland  cave, 

Allay  the  pangs  of  age,  and  smooth  thy  grave. — grainger, 

CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 
PIECES  IN  PROSE. 

CHAPTER  I.  Page. 

Sekct  Sentences  and  Paragraphs.        .        .        .  17 
CHAPTER  n. 
JVarrative  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  No  rank  or  possessions  can  make  the  guilty  mind  happy  32 

2.  Change  of  external  condition  often  adverse  to  virtue        -  33 

3.  Haman  ;  or  the  misery  of  pride        -        -        -        -      •  34 

4.  Lady  Ja'ne  Grey    •        -        -        ...        .        -      .  35 

5.  Ortogrul;  or  the  vanity  of  riches        .        .        ^^        .  33 

6.  The  hill  of  science    -       - 40 

7.  Thejournev  of  a  day;   a  picture  of  human  life    -     -  43 

CHAPTER  III. 

Didactic  Pices. 

SecL  1.  The  importance  of  a  good  education    -     -        •        •  45 

2.  On  gratitude        ........  4a 

3.  On  forgiveness          -         •-..-.  jb. 

4.  Motives  to  the  practice  of  gentleness        -        -        •      -  49 

5.  A  suspicious  temper  the  source  of  misery  to  its  possessor  30 

6.  Comforts  of  religion        .......51 

7.  Diffidence  of  our  abilities  a  mark  of  wisdom        -        -  52 

8.  On  the  importance  of  order  in  the  distribution  of  our  time  53 

9.  The  dignity  of  virtue  amidst  corrupt  examples          -  55 

10.  Themortificationsof  vice  greater  than  those  of  virtue     «•  56 

11.  On  contentment        -------57 

12.  Rank  and  riches  afford  no  ground  for  envy        -        -  60' 

13.  Patience  under  provocations  our  interest  as  well  as  duty  61 

14.  Moderation  in  our  wishes  recommended         -        -        -  63 

15.  Omniscience  and  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  the  source 

of  consolation  to  good  men         -         •        -        -        •  64 
CHAPTER  IV. 
Ancumentaiive  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  Happiness  is  found  in  rectitude  of  conduct        -        •  67 

2.  Virtue  and  piety  man's  highest  interest        •        •        -  63 

3.  The  injustice  of  an  uncharitable  spirit                 -         -  6i) 


250  CONTENTS. 

[Page- 

4.  Tho  misfortunes  ofmcn  mostly  chargeable  on  themselves         -        70 

5.  On  disinterested  friendship        •----.        .73 
I  6.  On  the  immortality  of  the  soul         •        -        -        -        -        .        75 

CHAPTER  V. 

Descriptive  Pieces. 

Soct.  1.  The  seasons       --  --  --.-78 

2.  The  cataract  of  Niagara,  in  Canada,  North  America        -        -      79 

3.  The  grotto  of  Antiparos        --.-..--80 

4.  Tiie  grotto  of  Antiparos  continued         •         -         ...        81 

5.  Earthquake  at  Catanea  -  -  ...  82 

6.  Creation         -         -         ---.....83 

7.  Charity       ...........jb. 

8.  ProKperity  is  redoubled  to  a  good  ipaD        -        •        -        -        -      84 
9    On  llie  beauties  of  the  Psalma         -  ....        85 

30.  Character  of  Alfred,  king  of  England 86 

11.  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth         -  -                 •        -        87 

12.  The  slavery  of  vice         ...  ••-*89 

13.  l^he  man  of  integrity        ...  ....go 

14.  Gentleness        .....  ....9] 

CHAPTER  Vr. 

Pathetic  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  Trial  and  execution  of  the  Earl  of  Strafford        -        -        •        -    93 

2.  An  eminent  instance  of  true  fortitude  of  mind      -        •        -        •    §4 

3.  The  good  man's  comfort  in  affliction        -----        95 

4.  The  close  of  life        - 96 

5.  Exalted  society,  and  the  renewal  of  virtuous  connections  two 

sources  of  future  felicity         .         -         -        -        -        -  98 

5.  The  ciemency  and  amiable  character  of  the  patriarch  Joseph    «  99 

7.  Altamont 101 

CHAPTER  VII- 

Dialogues. 

Stct  1.  Democritus  and  Heraclitus        ...-•..  103 

2.  Dionysius,  Pythias,  and  Damon        ....--  1(J5 

3.  Locko  and  Bayle 107 

CHAPTER  VHL 

Public  Speeches. 

Sect.  1.  Cicero  against  Verr^       ........     1X2 

2.  Speech  of  Adherbal  to  the  Roman  Senate,  imploring  their  protec- 
tion against  Jugurtha        ---.--  .      ]15 

3.  The  Apostle  Paul's  noble  defence  before  Festus  and  Agrippa    -     116 

4.  Lord  Mansfield's  speech  in  the  house  of  Lords,  1770,  on  the  bill 
for  jireventing  the  delays  of  justice,  by  claiming  the  privilege  of 

parliament         --,-.-...  120 

5.  An  address  to  young  persons         -        -         .        .        -        -         134 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Promiscnons  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  Earthquake  at  Calabria,  in  the  year  1638        -        -  -  127 

2.  Letter  from  Pliny  to  Germinius         -  -         .  .  130 

2.  I^elters  from  Pliny  to  Marceliinus,  on  the  death  of  an  amiable 

young  woman  -  -  -  -  .        .        _  ]3i 

4.  On  discretion  -  .  -  .  .  139 

5.  On  the  government  of  o'.ir  thoughts        -  -  1.14 

6.  On  tlie  evils  which  flow  from  unre-M rained  passions         -  -  136 

7.  On  the  proiicr  slate  of  our  temper  with  respect  to  one  anotlicr  137 
S.  E.xcellence  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  .  -  -  -  139 
9    Reflections  occasioned  by  a  review  of  the  blessings,   pronounced 

by  Christ  on  his  disciples,  in  his  sermon  on  the  ii.ouw.         -         140 


CONTENTS.  25t 

10.  Schemes  of  life  often  illusory,        ....-_  141 

11.  The  pleasures  of  virtuous  sensibility,        ....        -  143 

12.  On  tlie  true  honour  of  man,        -....._  145 

13.  The  influence  of  devotion  on  the  happiness  of  life,         -        -  146 

14.  The  planetary  and  terrestrial  worlds  comparatively  considered,  148 
1.5.  On  tlie  power  of  custom,  and  the  uses  to  which  it  may  be  applied,  150 
Ifi.  The  pleasures  resulting  from  a  proper  use  of  our  faculties,        -  153 

17.  Description  ofcandour,              .           _            .            -            .  jb. 

18.  On  the  imperfection  of  that  happiness  which  ies*a  Bolely  on 

worldly  pleasures,            .            .            .            -            .  ]54 

19.  What  are  the  real  and  solid  enjoyments  of  human  life,         -  157 

20.  Scale  of  beings,            -            -                        ...  153 

21.  Trust  in  the  care  of  Providence  recommended.,            -            -  161 

22.  Piety  and  gratitude  enliven  prosperity,            ...  162 

23.  Virtue,  when  deeply  rooted,  is  not  subject  to  the  influence  of 

fortune,             -...-.  164 

24.  The  Speech  of  Fabricius,  a  Roman  ambassador,  to  king  Pyrrhus  165 

25.  Character  of  James  I.  king  of  England,  -  .  -  16(5 
20.  Charles  V.  emperor  of  Germany,  resigns  his  dominions,  and 

retires  from  the  world,        ......  167 

27   The  same  subject  continued,           ...  ITO 


PART  II. 
PIECES  IN  POETRY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Select  Sentences  and  Paragraphs. 

Sect.  1.  Short  and  easy  sentences,        .......  175 

2.  Verses  in  which  the  lines  are  of  different  length,            -         .  174 

3.  Verses  containing  exclamations,  interrogations,  and  parentheses,  175 

4.  Verses  in  various  forms,            .....  177 

5.  Verses  in  which  sound  corresponds  to  signification,             -  179 
0.  Paragraphs  of  greater  length,            .                        -        -        •  ISO 

CHAPTER  IT. 

Narrative  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  The  bear  and  the  bees,           -           .           •           -           .  jgj 

2.  The  nightingale  and  the  glow-worm,         >  -           -           -  J83 

3.  The  trials  of  virtue        --....  j;^ 

4.  The  youth  and  the  philosopher,            ....  106 

5.  Discourse  between  Adam  and  Eve,  retiring  to  rert,       -           .  187 

6.  Religion  and  death,        ......  189 

CHAPTER  in. 

Didactic  Pieces. 

Sect.  I.  The  vanity  of  wealth,         ....               .       .  \Qi 

2.  Nothing  formed  in  vain,         ....                ,        ,  J92 

3.  On  pride         .......  .ib. 

4.  Cruelty  to  brutes  censured,            ...                        .  jgg 

5.  A  paraphrase  on  the  latter  part  of  the  6th  chapter  of  Matthew,  194 

6.  The  death  of  a  good  man  a  strong  incentive  to  viitiio            -  195 

7.  Reflections  on  a  future  state,  from  a  review  of  winter,            .  ib. 

8.  Adam'sadvice  to  Eve.  to  avoid  temptation,            -           .        .  19<j 

9.  On  procrastination,              -             -              ...  ff),T 

10.  That  philosophy,  which  stops  at  socon.iary  causes,  reproved,  193 

11.  Indignant  sentiments  on  national  prejudices  and  hatred  ,  ami  on 

slavery, -        -  |33 


752  CONTENTS. 

OHAPTFR  IV. 

Descriptive  Pieces. 

Sect.  1    Tho  morning  in  summer            -            -  WO 

2.  Rural  i^ounds,  as  well  as  rural  sights,  delightful,  201 

3.  Tho  rose,            -                        -----  202 

4.  Care  of  birds  for  their  young,            -                        -            -  ib. 

5.  Liberty  and  slavery  contrasted,            .           -            .            .  oqj 

6.  Clianty.    A  paraphrase  on  the  ]3th  chapter  of  the  First  Epistio 

to  the  Corinthians,         --..-..  204 

7.  Picture  of  a  good  man,  -.--.--  205 
8  The  pleasures  of  retirement,  -.--..  207 
9.  The  pleasure  and  benefit  of  an  improved  and  well  directed 

imagination        -.-..-.-  gQQ 

CHAPTER  V. 

Pathetic  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  The  hermit,        -------..  ggg 

2.  The  beggar's  petition,            .            -            -            .            .  2Jl 

3.  Unhappy  close  of  life,        -.-----.  213 

4.  Elegy  to  pity,             -            -            -            -            -            -        -  ib. 

5.  Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirk,  dating  his 

solitary  abode  on  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez        -  213 

6.  Gratitude            .......  214 

7.  A  man  perishing  in  the  snow  ;  from  whence  reflections  tue 

raised  on  tho  miseries  of  life,           -           -           -  216 

S-  A  morning  hymn,            ..--..  217 
CHAPTER  VI. 
Proviiscuous  Pieces. 

Beet.  1.  Ode  to  content,        --.......  219 

2.  The  shepherd  and  the  philosopher,         -          .        .        .        •  22P 

3.  The  road  to  happineas  open  to  all  men,         -         .        -        -  222 

4.  The  goodness  of  Providence,         ......  223 

5.  The  Creator's  works  attest  hia  greatness,        -                 .        -■  ib. 

6.  Address  to  the  Deity,        -        .        .        -        .                 -        •  234 

7.  The  pursuit  of  happiness  often  ill  dilected,        -        .        -        .  225 

8.  The  fire-side,             -             -----  227 

9.  Providence  vindicated  in  the  present  state  of  man,        -         .  229 

10.  Selfishness  reproved,        .----...  230 

11.  Hun. an  frailty,        .-.---...  231 

12.  Ode  to  peace,         -         --------  ib. 

13.  Ode  to  adversity, -232 

14.  The  Cret.tion  required  to  praise  its  Antbor,        -         .         -  233 

15.  The  universal  prayer,        ----«».  235 

16.  Conscience,         .-..                 ....  236 

17.  On  an  in^nt,                          -                         -           »           -  237 

18.  The  cuckoo,         -                  -         -                -        »        •        .  ib. 

19.  Dav.     A  pastoral  in  three  parts,            -            -        -        .        .  238 

20.  Tho  order  of  nature,        --.-.-..241 

21.  Confidence  in  Divine  protection,                                    •           -  S42 

22.  Hymn,  on  a  review 'f  the  sea.««n8,        .                .       «       .  S43 

23.  On  solitude,         -                 •        -                        •       •       -  345 

FINIS. 


\ 

\ 


J- 


?#  ^/ 


Un'^ei-sity  of  California,  Los  Angeles 


L  007  086  026  7 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


ii 


AA    000  946  961    0 


i 


..rS^^  -    -■ 


r/SSKl 


KSD    tOJiSXAKTLy    FOB    SALE    hi 

Aii  IIUHT  &  SON, 

No-  414.  IT.  F««rth  Stt^et, 

Tal  Asiortmtni     '     '  and  Stationary.', 

■  yficai  SpcPin:,  Bookrby  W.  8.  Carrlfl!. 
alyard,  or  the  ViriU(jus  Family,  by  the  same. 
Family,  by  the  same, 
riivprsai  Class  Book,  by  Tboma"  TT"<»Vif^«, 
Life  of  Fraiik-Uo.    Wti^ems's  J 
A'-ithmetic.  ,^ 

'•'■    -er. 

■f  C'iama»ar. 
!r>    Gr-ii.Tnar. 


i-  1  Frof;ies5.    Bait< . 

L.lIU  Dictionary 
n  Newtoa'«  Works,  3  vols.  ^v;.. 
luds.        '  'i 
:ind  Dit/iner. 
■rce.'~ 

>>cUool3. 

-jrama  of  Trades, 
.iiural  a:id  Polilical  Phil 
ns  and  Notes  from  popular 
lie  C()ntrf>verif>d   opinions   it>   i.ii,    _;i^ 
;,>ie;'  '  >r  both  sexes, 

r")!-;'''  ,  mary  I.essons,  by  Mr?:. 


^^X^..%^ 


